An Infinite History
by norxcoffee
Summary: Oneshots and drabbles, written from prompts. Mainly about the Nordics. Some angst, some romance, some inbetween :D
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! :D These oneshots are all from prompts I received on my tumblr, norxcoffee, so they will be quite short. They are mainly centred around the Nordics, as they're the characters that people requested! Enjoy :D**

 **Prompt: 'Why do you keep lying to me?'**

Sweden tossed the letter he had just received into the fire, frustration creating a dull ache in his skull. For five centuries, five painful, bloodsoaked, and sometimes beautiful centuries, Finland had been a part of his country. More recently, a part of his empire. Now that was no more. Russia loomed large to the east, chipping away at Finland's land as often as he dared. _But we always held on. No matter what._ And this letter- it destroyed all his pride, all his strength, with just a few scribbled words.

'What's wrong?' Cool hands slid across his shoulders. _Hands I will never hold again. Hands that rightfully belong to someone else._

'There was a letter...from Helsinki. From the commander.' He could not bring himself to say the rest.

'And? Has the city fallen?' Finland's breath tickled his ear, soft as feathers.

'No,' The lie made Sweden's chest clench in pain. But if he told the truth, then everything they had- an alliance forged in more than mere oaths- would fall away like leaves on the wind. The hands dropped from his shoulders. Light footsteps sounded behind him.

'Tino-

'Why do you keep lying to me?'

'What?'

'You're lying. Helsinki's fallen, hasn't it?' He turned about slowly, and Finland's face sent a thrill through him as it always did. _To think that he was mine, once._ This soft, smiling man with eyes like wild heather on a heath- he had belonged to Sweden. _And now I have unleashed the iron within._

'Yes.' The lenses of his glasses were clouding over, but he dared not take them off, because then his weakness would be laid bare. Finland laughed bitterly. He spread his hands wide, crooked smile faltering.

'What am I supposed to do, Ber? You can't protect me forever.' He clenched his fists, face set with determination. 'If Russia has taken my land, then I am bidden by law to live in his country, as his subject.'

'But that's not you- Tino, you were never meant-' The rest of it stuck in Sweden's throat, and he let the tears spill out unchecked. _Never meant to be someone's property. Meant to be free, free as the wind or the stars, more dazzling than either._

'I have to go now,' whispered Finland. Sweden made as though to embrace him, but he stepped back, biting his lip. 'Please- this is hard enough. Don't make it more difficult.' A choked laugh burst from Sweden's lips.

'You were always the strong one, weren't you?' And suddenly Finland had to wipe away tears of his own.

'Yes. One of us has to be.' He stared up at Sweden- tremulous smile in place, eyelashes darkened with the fruits of his sorrow.

'Goodbye, Ruotsi.'

'Come back to me.' This had always been Finland's way, to duck away from emotions before they swallowed him, say his goodbyes before something could make him stay. That morning he had woken up next to Sweden. Neither of them suspecting, knowing. Now the truth was laid bare. But they had their time together. Sweeter, lighter, than the dark passion of Denmark and Norway. Sweden caught Finland's last word just as he left the room:

'Always.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Prompt: 'I feel like I should be shocked that you two had sex there, but I'm not anymore'**

Iceland's eyes roved over the pair as they came stumbling through the door, clothes rumpled and faces flushed. Denmark's hair was wilder than ever, if that were possible, Norway's pin pushed back in haphazardly. It was obvious what they had been doing.

'I feel like I should be shocked that you two had sex there, but I'm not anymore.' he called out in greeting. Norway's arm dropped from Denmark like lightning.

'With _him?_ The man whose ultimate dream is to live in a castle made of Lego?'

'Yes, with him.' answered Iceland patiently. 'And in Sweden's house too! I only hope the dog didn't walk in on you.'

'Well, it wouldn't have,' said Denmark, grin snapping into place. 'Only Norway was too impatient to close the door, and we ended up with a spectator.'

'Liar-'

'What can I say, I'm irresistible! Norway didn't even notice the dog until I-'

'Shut _up_ , Danmark.' Norway flopped down on the sofa, bumping his shoulder against Iceland's. 'I was putting some laundry away, this idiot was doing his hair in the bathroom. Nothing else.' Iceland smiled. His brother could have made a living from lying- this occasion hardly expressed that talent.

'So you did it in the bathroom?'

'No, even I'm not that weird.' Denmark moved to the mirror, sweeping his hair back into its usual style. His grin became wicked. 'We went in Sve's room, of course.'

'We did _not!_ '

'Look, Noregur, I get it. You're ashamed that anyone believes for a second you fu-'

'Language.' growled Norway.

'All right, 'got intimate' with Denmark. But let's face it, you've been fu- sorry, 'getting intimate' since about the sixteenth century. Sweden won't believe a word of your lies.' Norway chewed on that for a moment, face contemplative. His eyes wandered over to Denmark.

'If you don't tell Sve, I won't make you call me big brother for a week.' Iceland whistled through his teeth. It was a good offer.

'And two bags of liquorice.' he added, deciding it was best to get as much as he could from the situation.

'Done.'

'Great!' Denmark leapt from his perch on the sofa arm. 'Wanna go back upstairs, Nor?'

'Not if you paid me.'

'Love you too, Nor.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Prompt: 'The king's displeased'**

'For fuck's sake, my _head!_ ' Denmark's aggrieved voice carried through the house with customary volume, waking Norway from his already fitful sleep. He groaned. This was Sunday; he should have been looking forward to coffee's sweet release, not dealing with hungover idiots. Norway rolled over and slapped his digital clock. Nine am sharp. _Perhaps I should get up after all._ He sat up, pulling a jumper over his sudden chill, and went to find Denmark. The nation in question was sprawled over the sofa, one hand over his eyes and the other still clinging to an empty bottle.

'That's mine,' Norway said, recognising his favourite aquavit brand. Denmark winced.

'Don't talk so loudly, Nor. I've got a headache, can't you see?'

'More like, you went out last night with Prussia, and blew ten thousand kroner on cheap vodka.' He plucked the bottle from Denmark's hand and tossed it neatly into the bin. 'How did you get in, anyway?'

'Spare key,' came the mumbled reply. 'Gave it to me last Christmas when Fin forced that rum down your throat.' Norway frowned, trying to summon the memory. Though if he had been drunk at the time, it probably wasn't worth it.

'Well, you can't stay here. I've got a meeting this afternoon with the finance minister, and Iceland's coming over-' The phone's harsh ringtone sounded through his little living room. Denmark clutched at his head, groaning, and Norway moved to pick it up.

'Hello?' he said. _Who the bloody hell is calling at this time?_ 'Yes, that's right. Yes, he is. Do you want to- no, that's fine. Yes, I will. Thank you. And sorry. Goodbye.' Denmark chuckled miserably.

'Whoever can get an apology out of you this early must be bloody royalty, Nor.' he slurred, mouth half covered by the cushion.

'Actually, it was.' said Norway mildly. 'The king's displeased.'

'Yours or mine?'

'Mine, you imbecile. You haven't had a king for nearly fifty years, remember?'

'Forgot,' Denmark told the cushion. 'So, what did he want?'

'He said, and I quote him here, 'A man with spiky blond hair was seen in Oslo city centre last night, waving a bottle of schnapps and singing the Danish national anthem loudly. Several members of the public complained, but no traces of the man could be found.' Ring any bells, Den?'

'Not sure.' muttered Denmark. 'I remember singing, but that was in a pub somewhere. And how'd he know I was here? I bet the dude's got some creepy cameras in your house, Nor.' Norway resisted the urge to slap him.

'Because...let's face it, we're always at each other's houses. People send us letters there, phone calls, everything.'

'What're you saying, Nor?' He felt his face becoming red.

'If you can't work it out, you're clearly still drunk. I'll get you an aspirin.'

'A beer would be appreciated more, but thanks.' called out Denmark. Norway rolled his eyes from the kitchen, where he was filling a glass of water. But beer did sound good. _Better when there's someone to drink it with._


	4. Chapter 4

**Prompt: 'Oh, the things I'd do to you if we were alone'**

It was Christmastime, and this year the five of them had agreed to spend it at Sweden's place. Finland preferred the tasteful decorations of his own home, but he had to admit, there was something endearing about the paper-chain explosion Sweden's living room now resembled.

'Nice job, Ruotsi.' he murmured. Sweden's work-roughened hand took his own, a thumb skimming over the knuckles.

'Thanks, Fin.' He fumbled in his pocket for something, and pulled out a crumpled sprig of mistletoe. Finland had to laugh.

'Smooth,' he said, moving to meet Sweden's lips all the same. They were about to meet when a small shriek burst from the door, followed by hurried _shush_ ing. Annoyance flashed across Finland's face.

'Peter, is that you?' A muffled conversation seemed to be taking place in the next room. At last Sealand walked in, a sheepish-looking Denmark behind him.

'I was about to stop you guys, 'cause frankly that was _disgusting_ ,' he said. 'But then Uncle Den saw, and started making a video.'

'And you didn't stop him?' Sweden shot his brother an irritated glance.

'Sorry, Sve,' he managed. 'But Nor's always playing hard to get, so I thought if I showed him this-'

'Showed me what?' Norway's pale head appeared around the doorframe. Instantly Denmark tried to smile, smoothing his hair with one hand and placing the other nonchalantly on his hip.

'Just a little video, Norge. Nothing to worry about.' Norway frowned, but didn't enquire further. He flopped down into a chair, and did his best not to complain when Denmark squeezed in next to him. Sweden dropped an arm around Finland's waist.

'D'you remember that time during the war, about 1942?' he murmured. 'We didn't have anything for Christmas dinner, so you went out and bought two dozen frozen potatoes instead.' Finland smiled at the memory, curling further into Sweden's side.

'They took four hours to peel, and by the time I was done, it was midnight and I had bleeding fingers.' He left the next part unsaid- how Sweden had bandaged each finger carefully, wiping off the blood, then kissed him just as the bells rang out for Christmas Day. 'And the night after, Ruotsi. Remember that?' He gave Sweden a little nudge, moving so close to him he was practically in his lap.

'How could I forget?' whispered Sweden in his ear. He pressed his lips to Finland's neck, hands moving steadily down from his shoulders.

'Ahem.' Norway coughed, with an insistent flicker of the eyes to Sealand. Sweden muttered an apology, but Finland simply stayed where he was, reliving that most magical of Christmas nights. _Every touch made more precious because we did not know if we would live the war out._ He could still feel the phantom caresses all over his body, as though a ghostly Sweden was reenacting it for him. Finland shivered. And Sweden must have been thinking the same, as he muttered something just for Finland's ears.

'Oh, the things I'd do to you if we were alone.' That did it. Finland grabbed his hand, pulling him up from the sofa towards the stairs.

'I'm sure I can arrange something.' he said, smile small but suggestive.

'About time, too!' called Denmark after them. And thus Christmas night, 1942, was replayed, exactly seventy-five years after the original.


	5. Chapter 5

**Prompt: 'This is my home'**

 _This is my home_ , thought Norway, as he stood on the veranda of his lakeside house, watching the sun sink beneath the glassy waters. It was a pretty little place, one he came to only when work allowed, and therefore he treasured these times. Nowhere was more beautiful. Far off in the distance, mountains scraped the sky like a jagged black spine, curving and pointing through the clouds with their white-frosted tips. The forest was alive, humming with all manner of insects and animals, pine-scented and cool. But out here, by the lake, it was still warm. _Harsh winters and hot summers. And what better place to spend them but here?_ He turned around, hearing the rumbling purr of a car engine. The familiar sight of Denmark's black Audi poked from the trees; something softened inside Norway. Back in the city, where his eternal job weighed him down, it was easier to brush Denmark off as an annoyance, something only to be appreciated 'after hours'. But here things were different. Here, where the nearest person was across a lake, he could be as open as he liked.

'Hey,' He greeted Denmark with a smile, taking his small bag. Denmark's face creased in confusion, though he returned the smile, giving Norway a quick kiss as he passed. _Idiot,_ thought Norway fondly. He had never been able to distinguish between tired, stressed Norway, and peaceful, affectionate Norway, treating them as one big set of mood swings.

'Dinner will be ready in five minutes, and I've made up the spare room.' he said, closing the door behind him. A raised eyebrow was his only response. Won't be needing that spare room, it said.

They sat opposite each other to eat, just like a date. There were even candles.

'It's good, Nor.' offered Denmark. 'Your cooking always tastes better out here, somehow.' Norway just smiled, not bothering to point out that his cooking back home was usually ready meals. It was highly unlikely Denmark knew the difference, to be honest.

'So, seen Sweden lately?' Denmark made a face.

'He was at the meeting yesterday, the one you managed to sneak out of.'

'That's not fair, I wasn't invited.'

'Whatever. But Sve's all right. Glares and mumbles, just like always. Still hasn't forgiven me for 1523.' He grinned, no doubt hoping for some sort of reaction. Norway did not disappoint him.

'You agreed to stop talking about that, remember? Fin even made you put it in writing, after you got drunk at Christmas and started hugging his knees.'

'I think he's got that framed in his kitchen, you know.'

'It wouldn't surprise me.' They exchanged more smiles, talking about work and their family, neither commenting on the unacknowledged tension in the air. Norway always felt it around Denmark, lying dormant beneath his conscious mind until they were alone. It was just the two of them in the house. No work to distract them. No prying brothers that might walk in. Nothing to stop the inevitable. He drew in a deep breath, rising from his seat.

'More wine?'

'How long have you known me, Norge?'

'Then I'm guessing you'd rather have a beer?' He took Denmark's grin as affirmative, and pulled open the fridge.

'Let me help you,' A pair of arms snaked around his waist, reaching for the beer in his hands.

'Den-' Norway turned around, realising the trap he had just let himself be caught in.

'Been looking forward to this all day.' He couldn't exactly disagree with that statement. Denmark set down his beer, taking Norway's face in his hands and pressing their lips together. He tasted like mint, like red wine, like the stew they had just eaten. Like _home_. Norway pulled away suddenly. He stared deep into Denmark's eyes, not even having to say it.

'God, I love you.' Denmark murmured. They carried on in Norway's room, every movement slow and deliberate, knowing they had all the time in the world.

And later, when Denmark fell asleep in his arms, Norway found his mind clear enough to think. _I could do this every day._ He wanted to, wanted it more than anything.

'I love you too.' The words fell strangely from his tongue. He had never said them before, not in quiet moments like this, had only let it slip in moments of passion where his mind was clouded. Is it even true? Three words- I love you- they seemed far to small to encompass everything he felt right now. _I could fill thousands of pages' worth with it. Our story is infinite, spanning centuries, a beautiful tangle of blood and tears and broken smiles. And a happy ending right here._

'Nor?' mumbled Denmark. He stroked the wild hair, loving that it never lay flat, that he was the sole person in the world permitted to do this. 'Did you mean it?' His hand froze.

'What?'

'You know what.' Norway sighed, finding Denmark's face in the gloom. _This is my home. Right here._

'I suppose I did.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Prompt: 'I never knew you were such a coward'**

'He's going to win, you know.' Norway said blandly, from his perch on the camp stool. Denmark exhaled slowly, dragging a hand across his haggard face.

'I know.' It was what haunted him every night, the reason he regretted ever joining this war- that Sweden would win, and take away the only thing keeping him from madness. 'We still have time-'

'Time for what, Danmark? We can't leave now, and when the inevitable loss comes, we certainly won't be able to.' His half-formed dreams of running away died on his lips. Denmark's hand felt for the bottle by his side, and something clicked inside him when his fingers brushed against the glass. He took a long drink, mind numbing a little. Norway's mouth formed a tremulous circle. 'Den...Den, you can't fall apart now.'

'What do you mean?' He took another drink.

'This is what happened when- when we lost Sweden. You drank and drank. And it never made anything better.' There was a tone to his voice that made Denmark lower the bottle, though he did not relinquish it just then. A tone that made it seem like Norway _cared._

'Norge, face it. Thing's won't get better. Why should I pretend?' The one light in his life would soon be extinguished. Denmark would have nothing left to live for after that- and alcohol helped him to forget, which almost made the headaches worth it. _Perhaps I was already broken inside._ He felt curiously calm; Norway was leaving, going forever, and all it did was create a dull ache in his chest.

'Because this isn't forever. Sweden's lost Finland- who's to say he won't lose me as well?' _Nothing is forever, my love. You might be part of Sweden for a thousand years and it still wouldn't be forever._ But even one year might be enough to destroy Denmark utterly, take everything he thought he knew and burn it in fire and blood. After a moment Norway sighed.

'Iceland. You have to protect him.' Small, pale-haired, unscarred by his guardians' troubles as of yet, the boy who still asked Denmark to read him fairy stories at bedtime. A reason to keep going. And then, the previous moment in denial, it all hit Denmark- he would never hold Norway in his arms again, never see his secret smile, never wake up to his face every morning and feel whole.

'I swear...I swear I will keep Iceland safe. Gods, Nor-' Denmark broke off, a lump rising in his throat. He felt the hot prick of tears behind his eyes, and squeezed them shut, flinging his bottle to one side and letting the sorrow sweep over him. _Never never never,_ cried the darkness. _Gone._

'Listen to me.' Norway put a hand to his face, palm cold and callused. 'You cannot let this happen. You will be all Iceland has soon, and I don't want to leave him in the hands of a depressed drunk. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' he choked out through tears. _No, no, NO! Don't leave me,_ he wanted to cry out. 'But I can't do it, Nor. I just can't...' The hand fell away from his face. Norway drew himself up to his full height, composing his face and folding his hands behind his back. Only his voice had any emotion to it.

'I never knew you were such a coward,' he spat. That stung more than any blow. _I love you. And I can't let you go._ Denmark did not know if that made him selfish, weak, cowardly, any of those useless words. All he knew was that Norway was lost to him, and there was nothing he could do.


	7. Chapter 7

**Prompt: 'Quick, you need to hide before they see you!'**

'Norge...Norway, are you there?' called a mumbling voice. Norway stayed silent for a minute, lying where he was. He had lived with Sweden for almost twenty years- a drunken Denmark outside his window was hardly ideal. _Please say this is a dream._ It was a bittersweet one if so, but only a dream. Yet Norway knew he had not slept at all that night. He rarely did these days.

'Nor...please, it's cold out here.' Some weak part of Norway awoke, forcing him to step out into the chill and unlatch his window. Denmark stood just underneath, waving a dark bottle in one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. His eyes were wide, almost manic, and his hair stuck up at impossible angles.

'What do you want, Danmark?' Norway considered it testament to his own madness that he had even opened the window at all. _And that I still have hope. That I still care._ Denmark smiled blearily.

'All I've ever wanted. You.' He took a swig of whatever foul substance the bottle housed, then tossed it aside, making for the ivy on the side of the house. Fear stabbed at Norway, despite everything.

'You'll fall, you idiot.' Denmark slowly turned to look at him. His smile became sincere, sorrowful. _Idiot_ had been their word- the name Norway called him in public, when he had used it so many times it became affectionate rather than disparaging. _Idiot_ meant _I still think of you._ And that was why it hurt. Because it was true. _When I sit in meetings with Sweden. When I eat with him in the evenings. When I lie alone at night, I imagine your face._

'It'll be for a good cause,' he said, words sliding over each other. 'And there's a new poem I learnt, just to serenade you. Like Romeo and Juliet, Nor!' His laughter tore at Norway's composure. Sweden never laughed- barely smiled, since Finland had gone. Having an equally taciturn brother in the house did not do much to improve that. Denmark began to ascend the ivy, smiling madly when pieces broke off. _Does he want to die that much? Or is he beyond caring?_ At last his hand slapped onto Norway's windowsill.

'Help me up, Norge,' he whined. Norway did so- but for himself, to feel the gentle touch he had been craving for so long, a hand in his own that was not for shaking briefly. Denmark landed heavily on the carpet, casting a look about himself.

'Nice little room you've got here. Bit cold, though.' He did not even bother to conceal the suggestive tone of his voice. Norway's mouth gaped open, and he found himself lost for words.

'Den...no, we can't...not here-'

'Then what _do_ you want to do? It's not like I can pop in every week, say hello.' His eyes were round with hope, the same bright light blue as always. 'This is all we have, Norge.' Norway did not hesitate a second longer. He let Denmark put his arms around him, let his tears fall in silence and tried to ignore the ones falling into his hair.

'I know. I know.'

And somehow, it was easy from there. They lay on Norway's bed the whole night, just talking and staring and smiling. Norway discovered that Iceland's puffin had a mate, and they were building a nest in the roof of the big house in Copenhagen. Denmark found out that Norway's room was only cold when there was no one to share it with. Often he wept throughout their exchanges, alcohol not entirely worn off.

'I don't understand, Nor,' he mumbled into Norway's hair. 'Why won't they let us be together?' Norway did not reply. He held Denmark until he stopped crying, whispered reassurances into his ear, stayed with him until the sun rose. Both of them had grown to hate mornings. They stared deeply into each others' eyes, no need for words after so many centuries. 'I love you.' Denmark told him. 'Truly, honestly. Simple. Do you believe me?'

'Of course.'

'Then say it back, Nor. I need to know-' Voices echoed in the corridor. One was stumbling, low- definitely Sweden.

'Quick, you need to hide before they see you!' Norway rose, pressing his ear to the door. He made flapping motions at Denmark with his hand.

'But you haven't said-'

'Go!' He gave Norway one last, sweet smile. And then he was gone, slipping from the window and down the ivy. When Sweden came in, Norway told him the tears were from a nightmare. _It is not far from the truth. The nightmare of being here, day after day, year after year. Whilst Denmark crumbles to pieces without me._

'I love you,' he told the open window. There was no reply.


	8. Chapter 8

**Prompt: 'I needed to be summoned'**

Belarus glared down at her brother, scowl etched firmly in place. Russia's head was in his hands, scarf darkened with tears and clothes ripped from where he had torn at them in anger.

'Vanya, you must be strong. The empire will fall if you continue in this way.' He did not move from his position, but Belarus heard a sob from beneath the scarf. She willed her heart to harden. Ivan was a gentle soul really, though his exterior did not show it.

'How can I, Natalya? The Tsar, he- he-'

'I know what he did.' She had heard the stories: how the Tsar Ivan, her brother's namesake, had struck out at his own son, killing him with a single, fatal blow. But it was not the blood that unnerved Belarus; she had seen and spilt blood countless times before. It was not even the horror of the act itself. The Tsar's screams- and Russia's tears, that was what set her heart racing. She drew in a deep breath. _Be strong. I am iron, steel, diamond. Unbreakable._ 'And he will do worse later on.'

'Bela, he will destroy my land! All that I have built over the centuries, fallen on the whims of a madman!' Russia shoved himself up from the chair, pouring vodka into a glass with shaking hands. Belarus let him drain it without complaint. _Soon_ , she told herself, _he will get over this. He will be Vanya again, my soft, smiling brother._

'We have stood through greater evils than the Tsar-'

'Why are you here?' He stabbed a finger at her, eyes blotchy but tone accusing. Yet Belarus knew he could do no harm in his current state. _Only when his voice goes soft, and he smiles_ that _smile. Then he is unstoppable. Terrifying._

'I needed to be summoned. Ivan, this always happens!' She gestured broadly, sweeping an arm over the alcohol-scented clutter of the room. 'Send for me. Send for Katyusha, send for anyone you like, but don't stay alone.' Her eyes locked with his, and those purple irises reflected only despair and sorrow. 'Please, Vanya. For me.' He took a shuddering breath, and set down his glass.

'Natalya, you are my dearest friend. My _mladshaya sestra._ ' She mouthed the words back at him, not even bothering to hold back tears. _Little sister._ Even when they were young, he had cast her off, preferring Ukraine's calming words and comfort. Not the bloodied steel of Belarus. And yet, now... 'For you, I will try.'

'We will outlive the Tsar by thousands of years. Surely you can wait a few more for him to die?' Ivan nodded, smiled, rubbing the edge of his scarf as he always did when worried. Belarus knew her words had not penetrated his thick layer of self-doubt. _Sweet, stupid Vanya. So strong in battle, so cruel. And now so vulnerable_. Slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal, she stepped forward and placed her arms around him. It took a moment for him to respond. He had never been inclined to affection, but now he returned his sister's embrace with arms that were painstakingly gentle, so careful Belarus felt a sob rise in her throat. _He is scared to hurt me. Because he knows if he did, he would not be able to stop himself._

'Go to the Tsar, Ivan.' she murmured. 'Give him your greatest condolences for the loss of his son.'

'Wha- what? But he killed-

'Rulers and madmen do not like to be told harsh truths. Take him a gift, be sympathetic and generous. Find his favour, and keep it.' She turned her back, staring out at the snows to freeze the warmth that had crept out. _I am sorry, big brother. But we cannot afford to be weak._

' _Go_ , Rasija. Do not return until we are the Tsar's trusted advisors again.' He hesitated briefly- then nodded, leaving the room to do her bidding. Belarus let the tension in her shoulders loose. It would always be so- princes and emperors casting them aside as they liked, not knowing that they were more valuable than any lickspittle or flatterer. _And we will always rise again. Even if it means freezing Vanya's heart as well._ She closed her eyes to the snow, and felt a kindred spirit in its cold smother.


	9. Chapter 9

**Prompt: 'That one has the heart of a lion'**

It was over. At last, after six long, painful years, the Second World War had come to an end. Now Germany was broken and defeated, a shell of his former glory. _But that glory only seems to bring about bad things._ The First World War- he had been there, at the front lines, had seen his countrymen fall in their thousands. This was different. His country's leader (dead, he couldn't hurt them anymore, he had to _remember_ ) had ever been a cruel, unsavoury man. Yet Germany stood by him, right up until the invasion of Poland. When the plans were announced, the army readed, he fled. _I betrayed my country._ Through field and forest he ran, the shadow of the Third Reich constantly at his back, east and west and finally south. To Italy. Veneziano had been surprised to see Germany turn up on the doorstep of his Tuscan villa, but he welcomed him with open arms and an open heart.

'Tell me,' he said in that lyrical voice of his. And so he did. Germany spilled forth the darkest secrets of his heart- how the Chancellor's dislike for Jews had turned into something evil, how he had been forced to stand and watch in his uniform with the red armband as books were burnt, shops smashed, synagogues destroyed, all for the so-called crime of being different. Italy listened, nodded. Then he smiled. That smile, the one that made Germany dizzy every time he saw it- he would have torn down walls with his bare hands, fought lions unarmed, just to watch Feli smile. 'I'm going to call Lovi,' he said, gentle but firm. 'We'll have pasta, and music, and you will forget about all of this, _si?_ ' Germany had no choice but to agree. So Romano came over, with Antonio, and they ate and drank and danced until even Germany's stoic face relaxed into a smile. The next day his hangover was so bad, that he did not remember Poland until Italy's telephone rang sharply. 'Ciao? Oh, yes. Yes, he is.' 'Gilbert,' he mouthed, passing the phone to Germany.

'West?'

'Ja, it's me. Don't shout.'

'What, I wasn't! But you're needed here, in Berlin. Arthur- well, his prime minister. They've declared war.' Germany swore quietly in his own tongue.

'I refuse to go back there,' he said between clenched teeth. There was a rush of static over the line as Prussia sighed.

'West. He's fanatical about this. And- and I've got no choice as it is. I'm only a nation as long as the government wills it.' The telephone threatened to crack beneath his hand, so great was the rage that shook Germany. 'Please, West. Italy and Japan have already joined us.' Germany nearly screamed. _No, no. He wouldn't lie to me._ He slammed down the phone, and went to find Feli. But when confronted, Veneziano's eyes slid to the floor in shame.

'I had my suspicions,' he muttered. 'And we've been allies for so long now. But you, Ludwig-' He reached out and took Germany's callused hand in his own small one. '-you've been blind, amico. It was only a matter of time before something happened.' His tears did fall then.

'Then we have to go,'

'What?'

'We have to fight. It is our duty as countries.'

Now, after six years, Germany was still not sure if that decision could be ranked under his worst or best. He fought as a pilot for several years, whilst Feli worked as a double agent between his government and the Resistenza. Their rare meetings- whether at a war conference, passing by in Berlin or simply a quick glimpse of the eyes- Germany held them all close to his heart.

'How's Roderich?' came Italy's voice.

'Good. Still has nightmares, but I suppose we all do.' Italy sank down next to him on the bench, red-brown hair oddly dark and subdued. _Even he has lost some of his light._

'Germany...Ludwig- what does this mean for us?'

'Feli, I will always l-'

'West.' Prussia's voice was jovial, as always, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. 'Meeting's in fifteen minutes. Wanted a chat.' He glanced pointedly at Veneziano, who rose from his seat.

'Of course. I will leave you to talk.' He tried to grin; failed, and settled for one last gaze into Germany's soul. _Later,_ those caramel eyes seemed to say.

'You really care for him, don't you?'

'Hmm?'

'Feli. Your eyes go all soft and romant-' He laughed as Germany shoved his arm, running a hand across his pale head. 'But he's good for you, West. Soon-' Prussia's voice trembled. They both knew why. There were talks of a wall, a true East and West, their beloved country slashed in two by an idiot with a map and a pen. '-soon, I won't be here to look after you- ouch, Ludwig, I meant it. And Austria can't keep you safe. Not Switzerland, not little Liech, not even Hungary.'

'What are you saying?' His voice came out as a tortured whisper. Prussia merely shrugged.

'Keep Feli close. You're my little brother, West. I know you better than anyone. I know you could knock a grizzly bear into the dirt with one punch, but as soon as you open up to someone...' He smashed his fists together. 'Down. You're defeated. But Italy- he's stronger than you, in ways no one will ever see. He'll keep you together, until we can be reunited. That one has the heart of a lion.' Then he was gone, charcoal greatcoat swirling about his knees and his white hair uncovered. Germany stared after his receding figure until it was swallowed up by darkness. I cannot let Gilbert leave me forever. _I cannot allow this wall to be built. That is something only madmen do._ But to keep Italy close- that was a task he would undertake willingly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Prompt: 'Stop!'**

It was a cold winter's day in Oslo, some time after Christmas, and Norway planned to spend it with a book and a cup of coffee- and most definitely _alone_. He rose early, as was his custom, and began to build up the fire in his living room. The flames were dancing merrily soon enough, so he brewed his coffee and sat. Peace washed over him in soft waves. Norway could not remember the last time he had done this- managed to spend a whole day uninterrupted, with only the snow out of his window for company and no noise but a crackling fire. He had just finished the first chapter of his book when the doorbell rang. Norway found himself seriously tempted to ignore it, and so he sipped at his coffee with a renewed air of complacence. _Whoever it is, go away. I've spent my entire life making sure this country doesn't collapse, the least you can do is leave me alone._ But still the bell rang. Only someone who knew him would be so blatant- only another nation.

'Stop!' he yelled, stomping with slippered feet to the door. 'Who is-' Norway's voice slid away. In front of him was...was a _thing,_ with three huge boxes in its arms, what looked like four bags slung over its shoulders and pockets stuffed with suspiciously rectangular-shaped items.

'Norge, you there?' It took considerable effort not to swear just then. Who else would wear out his doorbell so insistently? Who else carried Lego in their pockets, for God's sake?'

'What do you want, Danmark? It's January the fourteenth. The next meeting's not for six days.'

'I thought you'd want to see me!' came his whine from behind the boxes. 'And you can't send me back now, I haven't booked a flight or a ferry-'

'That can easily be arranged.' He stepped back, closing the door, but Denmark's foot shot out to stop him.

'Please, Nor.' Strangely enough, it was the lock of honey-blond hair just visible above the boxes that made Norway relent, not any gifts of persuasion Denmark believed himself to hold.

'Only so I can sort out your hair,' he muttered. 'I won't have you in my city looking like that.' He took the boxes and dumped them in the hallway.

'Thanks, Norge! Knew I could count on you.' He pretended to dodge Denmark's hug, just stopping a smile when it came.

'So, why are you here?' said Norway, flopping back down into his seat near the fire.

'To build a Lego castle! Here-' Denmark rifled around in his jacket, pulling out a sheaf of heavily pencilled papers. 'These are the blueprints. There's a secret at the end, but you've got to help me build it.' Norway considered the offer for a moment. Send him away, go back to peace and quiet- or build a Lego castle. The choice should have been easy.

'All right,' he said at last. 'But I expect you to pay me back in pastry for at least a month.'

'Done!' They shook hands, a little awkwardly, then Denmark leapt to his feet. 'Let's build it!'

To Norway's surprise, the blueprints were neat and detailed- which had Sweden written all over it. _Maybe there is more to this than meets the eye._ He clicked Lego blocks together until his hands were raw, replying absent-mindedly to Denmark's chatter and hardly resisting when he set a playlist of Christmas songs going on the speakers. The walls of their little castle rose in a complex pattern of red and blue, white laced here and there between the bricks. Norway stepped back to rub his sore hands. He had to admit, it was an impressive structure, not the usual mad creations Denmark displayed at his own house. Norway could not help but roll his eyes as Wham's 'Last Christmas' came floating into the air.

'Really, Den? I've been lenient, but it was twenty days ago...'

'Just let the Christmas spirit take you, Nor,' said Denmark, who was dancing long with his eyes closed. 'You get on and build. It'll be done soon.' Norway resisted the urge to throw something at him, and opened the last bag of Lego. There was a lot less in this one, so he set to work quickly.

'It's done.' he announced, just as the final notes of 'Last Christmas' were falling away.

'Close your eyes...' Norway felt hands covering his eyes. He gave in, letting Denmark pull him back. 'Now-' The hands dropped with a flourish. And Norway gasped. There in in front of him, constructed entirely from Lego, was a castle. A heart-shaped castle. In the colours of his flag.

'You sentimental idiot.' This time it was impossible to keep from smiling. 'Why didn't you do this at Christmas, when it might have held some symbolism?'

'Had the idea on New Year's Eve. Seemed too good to wait until next year, so here I am. Do you like it?' Did he? Did he really like a heart-shaped castle built from Lego? _My standards are slipping._

'I'll tolerate it, just as you don't have any plans to kiss me in it, that sort of thing.'

'Right here's perfect.' whispered Denmark in his ear. _If I turn, he'll be right there. Our lips will meet._ He stared at the castle. He stared at the floor. And he turned round.


	11. Chapter 11

**Prompt: 'No matter how hard I try, they just won't stay dead'**

Finland was just falling asleep when Sweden's strangled yell jerked him back to consciousness. He sat up tiredly, sliding soft arms around Sweden's ramrod straight torso.

'What's the matter, Ruotsi?' he mumbled. Inside, Finland already knew. _The nightmares._ They had plagued Sweden ever since that fateful day in the sixteenth century. Now, in the early nineteenth century, they were a rare occurrence, but still very much alive.

'Saw them again.' muttered Sweden. 'Back- back in the old house.'

'Tell me what happened.' Finland never liked this part- never liked to hear what Sweden had done to their brothers in his personal dream-hell- but he knew it helped. _Only with every dream, my hopes die a little more._

'I was in the garden. At night. It was warm, like a summer's day, but I couldn't see the sun or anything. And then-' That pause meant _them_ , meant Denmark and Norway. They haunted his dreams like wicked wraiths, always described as more beautiful and terrible than their real selves. '-then _they_ came. They were flying again, and I was trying to talk to them, asking how to get home, but they just kept laughing.' Finland found it strange, how in reality their roles were very much swapped. Denmark and Norway's union had endured for centuries now. Yet their power had not. The North Sea Empire was a mere memory, rulers like Queen Margaret and King Cnut forgotten. They lived richly, in comfort- and miserably.

'You are stronger than they are,' he whispered, making Sweden shiver. 'This empire was built by _you_. Us. The Swedish Empire.'

'The Swedish Empire.' His voice was a feeble echo of Finland's. 'I don't feel like an empire. At least, not at night.' _There is more to this dream._ By this point, he had usually been coaxed back to his senses. But still Sweden clutched at his head, trembling, defeated.

'I killed them.' he breathed. 'I drew my sword, and-' He turned to look at Finland. His dark eyes were round with panic, pupils dilating furiously. 'It felt good.'

'What?'

'To stab them, to hear their screams...like justice. A justice I don't need anymore.' Finland had no words for that. He had taken pleasure in killing, it was true. _But only in the heat of battle fever. Only when it was strangers, enemies. Not my own brothers._ Sweden took a shuddering breath. 'But they rose. They tormented me again. So I killed them again. And again they rose.' Something glistened on his face. _Sweat, or tears?_ 'No matter how hard I try, they just won't stay dead.'

'Ruotsi, listen to me. You cannot kill them.' He cupped Sweden's strong jaw in his hands. 'They will never die, not unless you cut them into a thousand pieces.' Finland moved closer. 'By all means murder them in your dreams. Get rid of the anger, the fear, the hatred, anything bothering you. You are stronger.' Their foreheads touched. 'Better.' Noses slipped against each other. 'They are _nothing_.' Lips.

And later, when Sweden had fallen asleep in his arms, Finland knew it was worth it. He had witnessed the collapse of two brothers already. He would not let the same fate befall his Ruotsi, even if it meant damning those brothers with every word. _To be cruel is to be kind. You learnt that too late, Tanska and Norja._


	12. Chapter 12

**Prompt: 'Once, I drank a whole bottle by myself'**

It was the dead of night, but the forest they sat in still hummed with activity. A soft wind whipped through the trees, stirring the pine-scented air, and every so often an owl hooted quietly. Finland led his friends down a path he had memorised over the centuries, feet light upon the ground.

'Here,' he said at last. 'Put out the torches.' There was a series of clicks as the other four switched off their torches. Now the only light they had was that of the moon; it played across their pale faces like silver mist, coaxing a silver glow from coat buttons and upturned eyes. Finland pulled a bottle from his jacket. 'Finnish vodka,' he told them solemnly. 'Three times as strong as any of that Russian water.'

'Come on, it can't be that bad!' Denmark's voice knifed through the gloom, inciting irritated _shush_ es from the others.

'Oh, it can.' said Finland softly. 'And you promised to do this. All of you, last Christmas.' Sweden was the first to give in, nodding his agreement; then Iceland, who muttered 'Fine,' followed by an apathetic Norway and the still-loud voice of Denmark. 'Good.' He took out five shot glasses, setting them on the pine needle-carpeted ground. There was a sudden silence as Finland filled each glass to the brim.

'Fin,' said Iceland after a moment. 'Just how strong is this stuff?'

'Strong enough.' They drained their glasses in unison. Iceland winced and spat over his shoulder; Denmark grinned manically, though one eye twitched in pain; Norway was composed as ever, if a little unsteady; Sweden merely looked confused.

'Fin,' he said awkwardly. 'That was _water_.'

'I know.' Finland felt the familiar burn of alcohol, deep in the pit of his stomach, and smiled. 'At least, yours was.' Their three companions were at the staggering stage by now, coughing and clutching at each other for support.

'Might I ask _why?_ '

'Well, they haven't left us alone since Christmas. Which was a month ago. So if you'll follow me back to the house?' Sweden gaped at him.

'Fin...Finland, you mean...?'

'Yes.' He grabbed Sweden's hand before he could change his mind, setting off back the way they had come. Christmas with the family meant no 'alone' time, unfortunately. _And all I could think of was getting the rest of them drunk._ Finland glanced over his shoulder. The other three had all collapsed against trees or each other, still in a stupor from the affects of his vodka. 'Once, I drank a whole bottle by myself. Back in the Sixties, maybe. But they made it much stronger then.' Sweden laughed.

'Did you really do all this just so we could be-'

'Yes. Are you surprised?' A sudden kiss was all the answer he needed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Prompt: 'I'm no longer a child'**

Iceland pulled on his thick coat, boots already laced and a scarf knotted around his neck. He would have preferred to go without unecessary layers, but somehow he knew Norway would have made him wear them anyway. His fingers had just closed upon the doorhandle when a dry cough echoed from the hallway.

'Where are you going?' Denmark's voice was low and husky.

'Out.'

'Out where?' He turned to face his guardian, a thousand sharp-tongued remarks jostling to be said. But Iceland bit them back. No use wasting dry humour on a broken creature like this one.

'For a walk,' he said cautiously. 'Why, is that against the rules?' A bitter laugh escaped Denmark's lips, but he did not say anything. Iceland took that as his cue and opened the door, tasting cool winter air. This new house was closer to the river, down by Denmark's beloved boats, and they felt the full force of the weather more than ever now. No one would notice a young boy walking by the canals.

'Stop!' A hand grasped at his arm. Denmark's face had gone from deadpan to pleading in a matter of moments, the fear all too obvious in his eyes. Something clutched at Iceland's heart. _But I am numb now. I have forgotten how to feel._

'I'm no longer a child,' he muttered, wrenching himself out of Denmark's grip.

'Please, Island!' He had been drinking again; the sour smell of aquavit hung in the air like an accusation. Iceland had none of Norway's strange control over Denmark, and so the older nation drowned his sorrows in alcohol with no one to stop him. 'Don't leave me!'

'Why would I do that?' He said it with the intent to reassure, but instead it came out as incredulous, even disparaging.

'All the others have. Even Norway...' Denmark looked up, eyes round and hopeful like a dog. _What have we become?_ 'You'll stay for your Storebror, won't you? You want to be here when he comes back, and I know he will, Sweden took him...' He babbled to himself in that slurred voice, while Iceland merely stared. He did not feel revulsion, or pity. No longing for the past. Only a strange apathy- a wish to stand outside and taste snow on his tongue, wander the streets of a city he knew better than his own country. _I'll come back._ He meant to say it out loud, but all that came out was air. Iceland turned, and slammed the door behind him. The drunken cries from within barely reached his ears. Then, without a second look back, he set off down the canal.


	14. Chapter 14

**Prompt: 'Best thing I ever did was marrying you'**

Bullets whistled overhead like deadly birds, spilling at irregular intervals from enemy guns. Sometimes there was a surprised yell from above, and Sweden would know one had found its mark. He hoisted up his own rifle and squinted through the eyepiece. The blurry forms of a thousand men came into view- Russian and Finnish alike, hacking at each other with bayonets or firing guns at close range. It was a dense and bloody battle. Far off, he could just make out the enemy machine guns, great grey lumps that shook constantly with their death rattle. Sweden picked his target. His finger brushed over the trigger, pushing down- but the Russian soldier fell before he could react.

'Fifty-seven!' came Finland's delighted voice from his side. Sweden lowered his rifle in disbelief.

'Fin, that one was s'mine! I'm only on twenty-three.' Finland shrugged, a lock of hair falling into one eye. It was caked with mud and blood, but here and there gold still shone through.

'You aim for too long. Shoot whilst you've still got instinct.'

'Very well.' They shouldered their weapons again. Sweden got in a couple of shots, though Finland would still have said he took aim for too long. His arm shook and bounced with every pull of the trigger, sending a rippling jolt of pain down the bone. Yet Sweden would rather be here than anywhere else. He was with Finland, fighting for freedom, no longer kingdom and colony but equals, with the same rights at long last.

'Sví!' Iceland's breathless voice called from behind them. They rolled out of their shooting positions and stood. 'Orders from HQ. You're both to retreat back to base for reinforcements, then head out into the woods. There's a fresh troop of Russians out there, apparently.' He grinned at them with all the romance and glory of war. Iceland's borrowed uniform was a little big for him, but he stood proudly, pleased to be included in the war even if he looked no more than fifteen years old. _One day, he will learn. War is not all about fabled victories._

'Where's Denmark and Norway?' asked Finland.

'Up in the other watchtower. Den insisted he could take the lot of them with just his axe, but it didn't go down too well with the General. Norway's fine. Bored, probably, but there you go.' He shot them a clumsy salute, then disappeared down the stairs again. Sweden felt a slow smile spreading across his face.

'Ready?' he said.

'Readier than you,' said Finland, a little disgruntled. For once Sweden merely laughed, hugging Finland close.

'I'm sure you could take out all those Russians on your own.'

'Well, it'd certainly be quicker without you.' That earned him another laugh, and a kiss.

'Best thing I ever did was marrying you.' he murmured into Finland's hair. They both froze.

'Ruotsi...' Finland broke from the embrace, staring up with eyes that were suddenly serious. 'We're not married.' _Congratulations, Sve,_ said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Denmark. _Messed it up again._

'Wait, Fin-' He put a hand in his pocket, rifling through various shredded papers and spare bullets. Something round brushed against his fingers. 'Here.' The ring was simple, a band of silver dusted with coal and other marks of war. There were no further embellishments; only the gesture, simple and sweet. 'Will you at least wear it?' Finland took it as though it was carved of the most delicate glass, holding up the ring so it was touched by feeble sunlight.

'I'll do much more than that,' he breathed, voice light as air. Sweden's lips brushed against his just as he slipped on the ring. And so they were joined at last, whilst the cacophony of war raged about their heads. Yet all Sweden could hear was the beautiful roar of his own joy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Prompt: 'Once, I drank a whole bottle myself' (already done with SuFin, this time with Norway)**

Though it was long past midnight, the air was still warm and pleasant against Norway's skin. Not that he would ever admit it. He sipped placidly at his beer, half-listening to the drunken conversation of Denmark and Australia nearby. Prussia and the latter had set up a drinking club, Denmark wanted to join, and a few phone calls later, they were sat on Whitehaven Beach for the 'initiation ceremony'. So far that seemed to involve consuming copious amounts of alcohol.

'...and then, the spider bit me, but you know what I did next?'

'What?'

'I hit that little fucker so hard all the poison fell out!'

'No way!' Norway rolled his eyes. Amongst Denmark's considerable talents and (mainly) friendly personality, he also harboured a reputation for gullibility that was exploited without mercy at every world meeting.

'Are you going to initiate him?' he called over. 'Only we have a twenty-six hour flight to catch tomorrow, and I'd like to make it on time.'

'Sure, sure.' said Australia, holding up his hands. 'Here, dude, catch!' He tossed Denmark a fairly nondescript brown bottle. 'S'called Sunset Rum. 83 percent alcohol content, and all you gotta do is take three sips. Big ones, mind.'

'Is that it?' Denmark's face screwed up in disbelief. Australia flashed Norway a wink.

'Yeah. Then you're part of the Drinking Club of Nations, and the third member!'

'Great!' Denmark raised the bottle to his lips, drank- and screeched as soon as the liquid entered his mouth.

'What's the matter?' said Australia, all innocence.

'That stuff's lethal! Poisonous!'

'Three sips, dude, and you're in the club. Three little sips.' Denmark nodded, visibly bracing himself. He took a tentative swig. This time there was less screaming, but more muffled cursing and yelling. Australia laughed softly. 'And he says he can hold his liquor.'

'I can.' mumbled Denmark. 'Watch!' On the final sip, Australia smacked the bottle's base, forcing at least half of the contents into Denmark's throat. That proved to be his breaking point. He fell off his chair, thrashing around in the sand and spitting.

'Bit unnecessary,' said Norway, picking up the fallen bottle. He examined the label. 'Says here- ''Do not drink neat. Consequences may be serious.'' '

'He's a tough guy,' said Australia, leaning back in his seat. 'Give him an aspirin and some water, just like any other hangover, and he'll be up and running in no time.' Norway raised one eyebrow.

'I doubt it.' He drained the rest of the Sunset Rum, making sure to maintain eye contact with Australia the whole way.

'Dude! Sorry, but- what the fuck?'

'They used to brew an ale stronger than that back in the eleventh century. Only Denmark said it was too sweet, so he never built up a resistance to it.' Norway tapped the side of the bottle. 'Once, I drank a whole bottle myself.' He dropped it into the sand and began to walk, leaving Australia to bring Denmark back to his senses. It appeared the Drinking Club of Nations now had a fourth member as well.


	16. Chapter 16

**Prompt: 'I think you've had enough to drink'**

The room was alive with music, dozens of bodies moving to the beat in unison. Blindingly bright disco lights flared overhead, the alcohol flowed freely- and best of all, Sweden was _dancing_. He stood in the middle of a knot of admirers, singing along and swinging a bottle around his head. Finland grinned. He had never seen his Ruotsi so wild. Of course, their reason to celebrate was a good one. ABBA had swept into Eurovision with classic Scandinavian charm, winning outright with their hit 'Waterloo'. Their victory marked the first time Sweden the nation had won Eurovision. So Sweden the man, quite understandably, went mad. He drank with none of his usual care, downing vodka, beer and wine like they were all the same thing. At one point, he even performed his own drunken rendition of 'Waterloo', to probably sarcastic applause. Finland was loath to stop him. He had accepted England's offer to look after Sealand, and joined the party with a reluctant Iceland in tow for company.

'Finland!' yelled Sweden from the other side of the room. 'Wait, I mean- TINO!' His voice was clearer when drunk, somehow.

'Sorry,' muttered Finland, pushing through the crowd. He reached Sweden, only to find that he was singing an old Viking song and spraying everyone in the vicinity with alcohol. For a moment he simply watched, knowing that such an event was not likely to occur for a few hundred years more.

'I think you've had enough to drink,' said Finland at last, unable to keep from smiling. 'Come on, Ruotsi, let's get you cleaned up.' Sweden gripped at his shirt like a dying man.

'Fin,' he mumbled. 'Fin, we won. The singing people, did'ya see?'

'I saw,' said Finland, humouring him. They struggled from the shadowy room and into a hallway, where Sweden instantly collapsed against the wall.

'Legs don't work anymore,' he said with a wide grin. 'That's funny, Fin- look, I don't have any legs!' His laughter bubbled out all at once.

'That's nice, Ber.' muttered Finland as he rang up for a taxi. He manhandled Sweden into it with the driver's help, hissing apologies the whole way. They arrived at the hotel well after three am. Finland yanked off his smart jacket and tossed it onto a chair beside Sweden's, which was particularly redolent of strong spirits.

'Tino?' came a tentative voice from the bathroom. 'Don't feel so good...' It was followed a moment later by the unmistakeable sound of a body purging itself. Finland sighed. Another thing to sort out in the morning. But he helped Sweden wipe some of the vomit from his face, and got him to at least fall onto the bed.

'Night, Fin.' slurred Sweden.

'Goodnight, Ruotsi.' When Finland fell asleep, his dreams mainly included a shirtless man screaming ABBA songs at the top of his voice. He had a feeling he knew who that man was. But when Sweden finally woke up the next morning, with a headache so bad he could not even bear the sound of his breathing, Finland almost wanted last night's drunkard back.


	17. Chapter 17

**Prompt: 'Haven't you ever wanted to escape? To leave this place and see the world?'**

There was no sound in the room but the quiet rise and fall of their breaths, and the tip-tapping of two laptop keyboards. Iceland's eyes ached a little from staring the the screen, but he was used to that by now. Hong Kong scrolled through a website without really paying attention. After a moment he shut the lid of his laptop and sighed, shoulder knocking into Iceland's.

'Emil?'

'Yeah?' said Iceland, closing his own computer. He moved a little closer, taking Hong's hand.

'It's boring here.' They were in England's house, Hong Kong having been forced by China to make his annual visit there. He had persuaded Iceland to go with him, though it took several forms of bribery before he finally relented.

'I suppose.' Iceland stared about himself: at the Times folded on an armchair, crosswords all completed, at the teacups abandoned everywhere and the lace crotcheting on all the furniture. Had he been made to guess, he would have said the house belonged to a fussy old lady. And Arthur Kirkland was not so different to one in temperment, to be truthful. 'I can't do anything about it, though. You promised Yao you'd spend a whole week here.' Hong sighed, coffee-brown hair sliding into his eyes.

'I know.' he mumbled. 'England's all right after he's had a beer or two. But the rest of the time-' He affected a squeaky, irritated voice- '-it's ''make me another cup of tea, Leon!'' or ''Take your feet off my carpet, it was embroidered in 1456 by King-I-Don't-Care!'' '

'And you think you've got it bad.' retorted Iceland. 'At least you don't live with him all the time. When I go to stay at Norway's, he barely lets me out of his sight, and then Denmark's always there, drinking or baking those annoyingly good pastries-' He broke off, shaking his head. 'Only three more days. We can get through it.' But that did not seem to work. Hong Kong sat up, serious all of a sudden.

'I mean it, Em,' he said, taking Iceland's hand. 'Haven't you ever wanted to escape? To leave this place and see the world?' Iceland had to stifle a smile. He was many centuries older than Hong Kong; he had travelled Northern Europe so many times he knew the land without looking at a map, had gone with his brothers to various meetings and battles in many different countries. Whereas Hong- he knew only his own land, and England's.

'We've seen the world,' he said evenly. 'Every world meeting's somewhere different.'

'But that's not real! All we did was step off a plane and walk into some conference room. We don't _know_ these places, not properly!' Iceland considered that. It did not really matter to him, not when he had his laptop and somewhere warm to sit. Inside it was safe, familiar. And outside...countries he could not truly say he had visited, a whole world travelled but not _seen_.

'So,' he began slowly. 'I've heard Scotland's very beautiful. Not far from here. And it would piss off Art-' He was cut off by Leon's arms curling around his neck.

'I'm so glad I met you,' he murmured, dark hair tickling Iceland's face. It was soft, though, and warm- like feathers.

'And I you.' Iceland whispered back. 'But now we have to pack.' He slid out from Hong Kong's arms, bounding upstairs to his room. _But for our travels, we should share._ Iceland found himself surprised that he would drop everything to roam the globe; family, meetings, responsibilities. That was when he realised that this must be serious.


	18. Chapter 18

**Prompt: 'There's absolutely nothing wrong with you'**

'Nor!' came a half-hiss, half-shout from the other end of the boat. Norway ignored it at first. He did not like boats, did not like that stupid nickname, and certainly did not like the tall boy with hair like a hedgehogs, who seemed hellbent on befriending him. ' _Nor!_ ' Definitely a shout that time.

'Coming,' he mumbled, rolling out from underneath his warm fur. The boy- Denmark, that was his name- stood at the prow of the boat, one hand kneading his forehead. 'What is it?' Denmark turned, a broad smile curving his lips.

'M'head hurts,' he explained. 'Wondered if you could do something, with your magic stuff- and quickly. I think I'm going to die.' He said this last part with such conviction that Norway could not suppress his laugh. He touched two fingers to Denmark's head. The skin was warm, but no more than it should be, and he could detect no other irregularities.

'As far as I can tell, there's nothing wrong-' Norway broke off. Denmark gazed at him intently- not in a way that suggested he was just listening, but with such emotion that Norway felt a little uncomfortable.

'What is it?' he snapped, hand falling away.

'That's the first time I've heard you laugh,' said Denmark softly. He reached out, letting his own warm fingers brush Norway's palm. Norway grasped it- by some foolish instinct, a feeling he should never have acted upon. But he could not deny that having his hand in Denmark's felt _right_. Just like it was right that only he could see spirits, that they all accepted Sweden never smiled, that Denmark was tall and brave and-

He wrenched his hand away.

'There's absolutely nothing wrong with you.'

'But it still hurts, Nor!' He said it in his favourite whine, yet Norway heard the pain underneath. Regret passed through him fleetingly.

'What did you have to eat and drink this evening?' he asked to humour Denmark.

'I ate some of that fish we caught yesterday, and Harald gave me the beer-'

'That's why your head hurts. You got drunk, and now you're hungover.' Norway turned around again, to see Denmark staring at him, mouth agape.

'How- how can you know all that?'

'Observation. Patience. All your Viking friends drink at least three flagons a night, and they all get headaches. It was simple.' The awed look on Denmark's face was better than- well, better than anything he had seen before. It made Norway feel proud, like for once he wasn't the shy boy who only talked to fairies. It made him feel _wanted_. A thought occurred to him- though it was probably ridiculous, the sort of thing he should forget- that Denmark was not so bad after all. A friend.


	19. Chapter 19

**Prompt: HongIce in a Hetalia Fantasia setting**

Leon paced the town square anxiously, resisting the urge to check his watch. The healer he had requested was half an hour late- but surely that meant nothing? Surely he was just delayed? He hoisted the pack a little higher on his shoulders. _I am an adventurer. I will survive with or without this healer._ But Leon could not deny his panic when the bell rang on the hour, marking a full forty-five minutes after the time they had agreed to meet. A bird shrieked overhead. An open window creaked. There was not another sound to be heard. This was a sleepy little village, where the inhabitants worked the fields during the day. Leon had chosen it as the meeting point for exactly that reason. He leaned against the wall of a house, eyes fixated on the path. _Soon. Come on._ And as though some god above had heard his thoughts, the shuffle of footsteps came around the corner. Leon pushed himself off the wall, running through the pre-prepared greetings in his head. _Hello!_ (smile here) _You must be the healer._ (shake hands) _I'm Leon._

'Hello,' he began- and all other words died away. For this healer could not be human. He was slender, with snow-bright blond hair and eyes the exact shade of spring bluebells. Those eyes...Leon could have drowned in their violet depths, the silver lights that only served to compliment his pale hair.

'Sorry I'm late,' said the healer. Even his voice was beautiful, low and smooth. 'Emil,' he said, extending a hand that Leon took as though it was made of the finest crystal. 'Leon.' he mumbled in reply.

'I suppose you'll want to set off straight away?'

'Set off- yes, now would be- er- good.' stumbled Leon, distracted by Emil's fine cheekbones, the noble sweep of his nose. Freckles dotted the pale skin there, so faint they almost blended in. 'So, Leon, where to?' said Emil as they walked.

'Well, there's some castles to the north I've always wanted to visit. That is- if you want to?' Emil smiled ruefully.

'You're the adventurer. I'm here to patch you up when you inevitaby fall off some wall trying to find treasure, or whatever it is your sort do.' His tone was scathing, but not enough for Leon to be sure he was joking.

'Um, well-' he began.

'I'm sorry,' said Emil, and that was when Leon discovered his laugh could have softened even the coldest hearts. 'My brothers always say I talk to strangers like I want to murder them. Which is strange, considering I'm a healer.

'Tell me about them.' Leon dared to say. He was rewarded with another mesmerising smile.

'Only Lukas is my brother really, and he's a healer too. Mathias is a gunner, he's the oldest. Then Berwald, he's a blacksmith, and Tino's an adventurer like you. We like to call each other family, seeing as we don't have any of our own.' Leon pictured his own siblings- thought of Mei's sweet smile and Chaiya's endless questions.

'I'm sorry.' he muttered.

'Wasn't your fault.' Something in his heart lightened; Leon smiled back at his new healer for the first time.

'I hope we will be good friends, Emil.' The reply was better than anything he could have hoped for.

'Oh, I think we will.'


	20. Chapter 20

**Prompt: 'Once upon a time, I gave a damn what people about me'**

Norway had always been brave. Not in a way that most people would define it- jumping from burning buildings and things like that- but brave in that he did what he liked, and woe betide anyone that stood in his path. Back in the old days, when kings held all the power of a land, he was the only one who dared to contradict them and tell them they were wrong. Now, Iceland thought his brother hadn't changed a bit. They sat in his flat in Oslo, passing a bottle of aquavit between them.

'America's plan was promising, but he's still barely an adult,' Norway was saying. That day there had been a meeting to discuss cleaner energy sources for the world. Norway, of course, had met most of them with characteristic sceptism. 'Robot clouds, for Odin's sake.' Iceland did not reply. He detested world meetings, loathed them with a passion. Yet the very name 'world meeting' meant he was forced to attend every one.

'Denmark's plan was good.' he mumbled.

'I suppose. But he's already got hundreds of windmills, what good will a few more do?' He took a despairing swig from the bottle and pushed it back towards Iceland. Iceland stared at it, eyes bored and blank.

'The stuff's poisonous, Nor. One more sip and I'll probably die.' Norway rolled his eyes. He snatched it back up and drained the rest without so much as a shudder.

'You need to get out more. Go to a few parties, bars, you're still young.'

'The girl two doors down invited you to her party, not me, and your only reason for not going was that you were waiting for your ridiculously large shipment of coffee to arrive.' He leaned back, arms folded. Norway simply shrugged.

'It was a student party,' he said, making his way unsteadily to the fridge. 'Bad music, cheap alcohol, sometimes drugs. Not much fun.'

'Oh, and you would know?'

'I was a student once.'

'A student of the dark arts,' muttered Iceland, plucking at the worn cushion cover.

'I mean it.' Norway turned to face him, hands on hips and the neck of a beer bottle in his mouth. 'I was a student,' he continued, taking hold of the beer before it fell. 'England met this professor guy he wanted to upstage- you know what he's like- so he made me go to uni for a year and do Viking studies, something like that.' Iceland had to laugh. His brother, wild and weird, an university student?

'Did you go in the end?'

'A few times. Pretended I was transferring to Bergen when it got boring. But I ripped apart this professor's lectures when I got the chance. The inaccuracies, you wouldn't believe it!'

'You'll really do anything you like, won't you?' Norway's grin was less than pleasant.

'Listen, _lillebror_ ,' he slurred, shifting closer to Iceland on the sofa. 'Once upon a time, I gave a damn what people thought about me. I dressed like them, talked like them, became one of them. And then they all die. That's what it's like, to be a nation.' His face grew solemn. 'So I stopped caring. I did what I liked, and told the world to fuck off. Made things a lot easier, believe me.' There was silence for a moment. Iceland digested the words slowly, Norway's drunken mumbles very much fresh in his mind. He had never had human friends- only spoke to young nations like himself, and his family when there was no one else around. It never occurred to him that meeting humans would be anything less than painful when he inevitably had to break it off.

'What are you saying?' he asked.

'You should do the same. Stop caring so much. I see you at meetings, you're terrified! But no one gives a damn. Say what you like, they can't exactly fire you.'

'That's true.

'It is indeed.' Norway raised his beer bottle high. 'To not giving a fuck!' It seemed a rather sensible statement to Iceland just then.


	21. Chapter 21

**Prompt: 'Why fight anymore? What's the point in fighting against destiny?'**

 **1814**

Norway awoke one chilly morning to voices in the hallway outside. He slipped on a robe and went to investigate, the cold floor nipping at his feet. Denmark was out there, directing servants carrying chests of clothes and pacing to and fro down the rug. He greeted Norway with a distracted nod, yelling at someone carrying a tall glass vase to be careful.

'What's going on?' demanded Norway. When they met his, Denmark's eyes were watery and defeated.

'We're leaving. Going to a smaller house down by the canals.'

'What?' Norway did not know whether to laugh it off or collapse and weep. Even Denmark would not do something this mad. _And yet, the wars in France changed him for good. As we were all changed._ 'So you're selling this place, I suppose?' Denmark stared miserably at the floor, twisting a button on his jacket.

'No,' he mumbled. 'Too many memories. And Ice would never forgive me.' That time Norway did laugh, though there was no joy in it.

'So my little brother knows, and not me?'

'Nor, listen-'

'No, I won't listen, Danmark! I want an explanation and I want it now.' He crossed his arms and scowled, trying to forget that he was still in his dressing gown. Denmark's hurt look might have melted a lesser being, but not Norway. _My heart has turned to iron, to steel, to ice._

'Sweden's coming,' he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. 'I don't know when, or where. If it'll be a treaty, or if he'll come here himself. But Norge-' He stared at Norway with those piercing blue orbs, eyes that were lighter and star-brighter than the sea, yet somehow carried more depth than any ocean. '-he's going to take you from me.'

'Den, we've talked about it, you can't do anything-'

'I can. I can fight, even if I know I'm going to lose. Because every time I tell him no, it buys us one more minute.' Norway's mouth grew round and tremulous.

'Why fight anymore? What's the point in fighting against destiny?' He grasped Denmark's hands in both of his, trying desperately to remember every callus and blemish, each one of the fingers that could swing an axe or sweep through his hair with equal grace.

'Because I've always had hope,' whispered Denmark, moving closer. 'Sometimes even a fool's hope is better than no hope at all.'

'I suppose so.' And then they were kissing, hands on temples and shoulders and hips, expressing all of their fading desires in this one moment, this final union of two souls blown together by the buffeting winds of time.

'Say it,' murmured Denmark against his lips. 'I love you. I need to hear it again. One last time.' Norway's mouth travelled up his neck, coming to rest lightly on his ear. This would be the moment they dreamt of in long nights alone- this, their last time, before cruel destiny came in and took everything.

'I love you.'

Later, they were sprawled on the bed in a tangle of limbs, breathing in each other's scent. Outside a sickle moon carved the dark sky, attended by countless reams of stars that were not half so bright as the ones in their eyes. But now their star was falling, falling, too low to rise again like it had so many times before. Someone had opened the two large windows. The night crept in and curled up with them- cool, pine-brushed breezes whistling in gently, the nightingale's solitary soprano, a chorus of howling wolves and whispering leaves.

'I want you to promise me one thing,' mumbled Norway against Denmark's arm.

'Anything.' Their eyes found each other lazily, as though they had all the time in the world.

'Wait for me. If it takes twenty years, two hundred, two thousand, I don't care. Just swear you'll wait.' Denmark drew in a sharp breath.

'Nor, I don't think-'

'I don't care how long it takes. But if you fade away, then I'll have nothing left. So we have to live for each other. Understand?' A soft kiss was all the answer he needed. _And later, when we are blown back together again, are made whole, so it will continue. The endless cycle._ 'When all of time rots away,' he said into Denmark's hair. 'We'll still be here. Enduring, living. Doesn't that scare you?'

'No,' said Denmark, more decisive than he had sounded in years. 'It's only forever.' And his mouth found Norway's again.


	22. Chapter 22

**Prompt: 'I never knew it could be so fun'**

'Ice skating!' called a voice throughout the house, undeniably Denmark's. 'That's what we'll do for little Icey's birthday!'

'Don't call me that,' mumbled Iceland from the sofa, eyes fixated on the TV. It was his so-called birthday tomorrow, and every year the other four took it in turns to devise the most embarrassing celebration they could. At least, that was the way he saw it.

'C'mon Ice, it'll be fun!' Denmark nudged his shoulder. 'Go away.' growled Iceland.

'You don't have to call me big brother-'

'Not even for that, Noregur.' The door opened to reveal a beaming Finland, oblivious to the struggles of Hanatamago in his arms.

'Thought of somewhere for Iceland's birthday?' He sat down next to Norway and let Hana escape.

'Ice skating!' repeated Denmark, with an even wider smile.

'Oh, that's good! I'd better tell Sve, and Sealand can come too, can't he...'

'Fine.' muttered Iceland. 'I'll do it.'

So the next day the five of them and Sealand were stood at the edge of an ice rink, complete with bladed boots and warm jumpers. Music played softly from overhead speakers, and children squealed as they whirled across the rink, but to Iceland it was deafeningly loud.

'I'm not going first.' he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Denmark shrugged. He took two tentative steps onto the ice- then fell straight away, hands darting for the side rail. Norway smirked.

'Come on, it's not that hard.' He stepped out confidently and was off, gliding and turning as though he was born to it. Sealand watched with his mouth open wide, eyes following Norway's every move.

'Can we go on now?' he begged, tugging on Finland's jacket. 'Please?' Sweden smiled minutely.

'We'll see y'in a minute then, Ice?' Iceland gave a non-committal grunt. This ice skating idea only seemed to get stupider by the minute. He watched the other three move off, Sealand holding on to his parents' hands. Far down the other side, Denmark had found his feet, and was currently chasing after an apathetic Norway. Iceland sighed. _Why do I have to get landed with the weirdos?_ His boot scraped the edge of the ice. _Ice. Ha ha._ Arms held out comically at his sides, Iceland inched both feet onto the ice until he stood out in the open. He began to trudge forward, picking up speed, then walked, bemused at how easy it was. Other beginners clumped around and slipped, but somehow he knew where to put his feet, when to step and how to change direction. He soon caught up with Norway's graceful arcs.

'Ice?' His brother's voice was surprised. 'How did you-' Iceland shrugged airily.

'I suppose these things just come naturally to me.' He waltzed off ahead, making sure to save 'Confused Norway' in the blackmail part of his brain. _I never knew it could be so fun._


	23. Chapter 23

**Prompt: 'Mafia/underworld AU'**

 **1923**

New York baked and burned that day, under the merciless rays of the July sun. Stallholders grew tetchy from spending all day in the heat, and as a result their prices crept steadily higher. Children frolicked in the streets, splashng each other with water whilst their parents tried in vain to rein them in. It was a hot, lazy day. But not so for the man who strode purposefully down the baking cement, muffled in his greatcoat and fedora. He made his way to the hive of activity that was Little Italy, tipping his hat to passing women and shaking hands with the men. Everyone knew him here. And they had good reason to. He ascended the steps of a plain-looking townhouse and went in.

'Berwald!' Two plump, tanned arms threw themselves around his neck. 'Athena.' he greeted the woman, returning her embrace with long, awkward arms.

'But you are still wearing your hat and coat!' she scolded him, holding up a finger dusted with flour. Berwald shrugged.

'I like to stay covered.' he said. Athena tutted, removing the thick coat from his shoulders.

'He's in there,' she said with a jerk of the head. He slipped through the tiny kitchen and opened the door to a backroom. Four other men were in there, fat cigars in their mouths. One sat behind the desk, another lounged against the wall, and the two others were hunched on hardwood chairs.

'Signor Vargas.' He was Roma Vargas, respected family man and an ally to everyone. If there was a job that needed doing, a problem with the law, then he was the man to go to. And Roma Vargas asked nothing in return- nothing except mutual respect. An understanding, he liked to call it.

'Berwald, my friend. Have a seat. Have a cigar.' He proffered the box to Berwald, who took one and accepted a light. Berwald eyed the others through a haze of smoke. By the wall was Mathias, a Danish immigrant who had stowed away on a ship from Copenhagen and came into Signor Vargas' service when he needed his visa papers forged. He was best at quick jobs, in and out before security knew what was going on. The younger associates had nicknamed him 'The Flash'. Next was Lukas Bondevik, whose father had made a fortune with oil pipelines in the East and moved his company from Norway to strike better deals. He came to New York upon learning that his father intended for him to inherit the business one day, where Signor Vargas had discovered his talent for breaking and entering. 'The Ghost' was his sobriquet. And last was Tino Väinämöinen. Little was known about him, except that he was from Finland, and could fire a sniper with such accuracy that there was no point in trying to dodge. People called him 'Sudden Death'. There was no joke in the name.

'So I hear you have a little something for me, hmm?' Berwald nodded, taking a wad of papers from his trouser pocket.

'Lovino panicked when we saw the guard and drove off, but I took care of it.' Vargas examined the papers briefly and smiled.

'And should I interpret that to mean we have a new friend, or...?' His voice tailed off suggestively.

'A new friend, _signor_. He has the keys to several government departments, and an invalid brother. I do not see why he will should betray us.' Vargas nodded, leaning his chin on his hands.

'Good. And now, I have another job for you.' Berwald did not react. He had been expecting this.

'The four of you will take a flight down to Las Vegas, where there is someone I'd like you to meet. He is a rich boy, heir to a fortune in shipping. Emil Steilsson, Icelandic. That's why I'm sending you four.'

'And what would you like us to do after we've met him?' said Mathias, accent still strong after ten years in America. He was right. There were always strings attached with Roma Vargas.

'He is there with some friends. Two of you will play cards with those friends, and the others will help Mr Steilsson to choose his bets wisely.' A smile twitched Vargas' lips.

'Do I make myself clear?' He received four nods in response. 'Excellent. If you leave now, you should reach Nevada by midnight.' He reached inside his tailored jacket and took out four slips of paper. 'Four plane tickets, from Manhattan Airport. Feli's packed your bags, so all you need to do is leave.' There was a sudden silence throughout the room. 'Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir, Signor Vargas,' they all mumbled. The _signor's_ rage was a fearsome thing when roused. He ushered them out with smiles and embraces, as usual.

'Well,' said Lukas. 'We'd better go.' They picked up their cases, were waved off by Athena and her grandson Feli, and set off to the airport in a taxi. Berwald felt anticipation clawing up his spine- he had never felt nervous doing a job, no matter how risky. _It's just late,_ he told himself. But even the usually ebullient Mathias was quiet, Lukas less composed, and Tino had been chewing on his lip ever since they left the house. Somehow Berwald their meeting with Emil Steilsson would be a peaceful affair at all.


	24. Chapter 24

**Prompt: 'Why do you keep lying to me?'**

'Pastry's done!' called out Denmark, wincing as a wave of heat from the oven washed over his face. He pulled out the tray quickly and settled it on the side to admire his creations. They were uniform and perfect, twelve Danish pastries plaited expertly and adorned with custard and almond shavings. A pair of feet came thudding down the stairs. Iceland's pale head bobbed into view, still wearing its headphones. 'Don't touch,' said Denmark, slapping away his hand. 'Still hot.' Iceland gave him a look that would have frightened demons.

'You're famous for being a bad cook,' he said in a deadpan voice. 'Why would I want to try anything you made?' He slumped onto the sofa, face blank, but Denmark caught him sneaking glances towards the kitchen. Norway's lighter footsteps were heard a moment later.

'Custard and almond,' he mused, peering over the tray. 'Nothing new, then.' Denmark grinned. They never acknowledged he had any skill in the kitchen, even under duress, yet always ate the pastries when offered. He pushed them onto a plate and sprinkled on some icing sugar as an afterthought. Now they could have belonged in a bakery.

'Ready,' said Denmark, sitting down. Seconds later Norway and Iceland joined him across the table. They wore identical apathetic expressions, so much so that it seemed deliberate, and both eyed the plate of pastries with affected trepidation. 'Take one!' He did so himself, biting into layers of flaky pastry and creamy custard. The other two followed suit after a second. They said nothing, but both had finished within moments. 'Well?' said Denmark impatiently. 'How was it?'

'Terrible.' Norway shot back. 'Flavourless, undercooked,' he reeled off, reaching for another one. 'Awful mix of textures.' Iceland nodded seriously.

'We're eating these to save you,' he said, taking a pastry in each hand. He disappeared upstairs, still chewing. Denmark could not resist a grin.

'Tell me what you really thought, Nor.' He covered Norway's hand with his own to stop him from stealing the rest of the pastries.

'You know what I thought,' mumbled Norway, sliding out of his grasp. 'You don't bake enough, to be honest.' His fingers darted out and stole the last pastry.

'Why do you keep lying to me?' Denmark held down his wrist, grin widening.

'Just give me the damned pastry,' grumbled Norway.

'Not until you say it!'

'Fine. Your baking is excellent, your ego overinflated and all I want right now is for you to leave me in peace so I can eat this annoyingly good pastry.' That seemed fair enough to Denmark- but he did not let Norway go without a kiss first.


	25. Chapter 25

**Prompt: 'You know me, I'm impulsive'**

Winter in northern Europe was never an easy experience. Snow fell fast and furious, smothering everything in white until entire countries came to a standstill, trapped under nature's frigid blanket. Finland was fond of winter, but not when he had to shovel two feet of fresh snowfall away from his door every morning.

'Door,' he called out, hearing the bell go. Sealand scrambled to answer it. He returned a moment later clutching several parcels and a stack of letters.

'Postbox's frozen up,' he explained, handing the letters to Finland. 'But look, it's the new game Dad said he wasn't getting me for Christmas!' Finland made a noise of pretending to be interested, flicking through the post. Bills, Christmas cards from other nations, a letter from the government about wind power- they were always droning on about wind power these days. After a moment he sighed, tossing them all onto the coffee table.

'What's the date?' Sealand checked his phone.

'Eighteenth of December,' he replied promptly. 'Why?'

'Oh, nothing.' said Finland, smiling down at him. 'Just wanted to check something.' He slipped a pamphlet from the discarded pile of mail and went to find Sweden. He was in his workshop, face half-covered by a scarf and hands protected with skintight gloves. The beginnings of a new chair were taking place on the bench.

'Ruotsi,' he greeted him. Sweden stood up and pulled the scarf away so he could give Finland a peck on the cheek. 'How's the chair coming along.'

'Oh, y'know,' He waved a hand behind him. 'Fine when I get started.'

'Good. That's good.' Finland stayed there for a moment, absorbed in the sweep of Sweden's hair over his forehead. His eyes were so blue, so deep, like the bottom of the ocean-

'Fin?'

'Hmm?'

'Was there something you needed?' Finland laughed, holding up the paper in his hands.

'Yes, I forgot. But it's very cold here, and this came in the post. Would you be interested?' Sweden took the leaflet from him and examined it, a slow smile crinkling his face.

'I never thought you'd want to visit the Maldives, Tino. Especially at Christmas, too.' He shrugged.

'Sometimes it's good to have a change. So, do you fancy it?' Sweden chuckled, shaking his head.

'You know me, I'm impulsive. Let's do it.' He bent his head for a kiss, but Finland edged away.

'Packing first,' he admonished. 'Then kiss.' Sweden rolled his eyes.

'You can tell Sealand then, and deal with the excitement explosion yourself.'

That Christmas was a strange one, admittedly- but warm.


	26. Chapter 26

**Prompt: 'You're selfish, you never think about anyone but yourself'**

Iceland cast a slow, unimpressed gaze around the room. There were bottles everywhere- clustered on tables, peering from beneath the bed, staring out at him from all manner of ridiculous places. The air hung thick and pungent with alcohol, and dust covered everything so thickly it was almost fog-like. And right there, in the middle of it all, was Denmark. He lay facedown across weeks-old sheets, shirt stained red here and there.

'Is that wine or blood?' Iceland's voice struck blandly through the half-darkness.

'Don't care.' came the muffled response. For a moment he just stood there, considering Denmark's prone form. The slope of his shoulders was thinner than Iceland remembered, bones pressing against too-pale skin.

'Dan,' he said. 'You need to get up. It's been six months. Norway-'

'Don't say his _name!_ ' hissed Denmark, rising like an angered snake. He clutched at the bedpost with tensed hands.

'Fine. _He_ won't be coming back any time soon. I've accepted that, hard as it was. But I'm no longer a child.' Iceland felt it too; felt the weariness of age in him, recognised a new hardness to his face each morning in the mirror. _Twelve, going on a thousand._

'And what do you expect me to do?' Denmark's voice was strong and defiant, if a little slurred. 'I'm not your father. Not your brother, like _him_. Only your guardian- and it seems you don't even need me to be that anymore.' Anger rose up in him, sudden and unwelcome. Denmark could be a prize idiot when he felt like it.

'I'm your colony,' spat Iceland. 'Norway's leavings- yes, I'll say his name. He left me here with an alcoholic and centuries' worth of memories. Gone, like they meant nothing.' Something seemed to break inside Denmark. He raised a bottle to his lips, and flung it aside when nothing came out.

'He loved you,' The whisper floated across the room, shivering and weak. 'More than anyone. You were the only one he could truly be himself with.' Denmark laughed bitterly. He drew his knees to his chin, an act of such vulnerablity that Iceland softened somewhat. Not enough to offer comfort, though.

'Don't tell me that,' he said in a harsh voice. 'I knew Norway. I _know_ him. He might have loved me- he had to, I was his brother. But Dan-' Iceland gave in for a moment, perching on the bedframe. '-you're selfish. You never think about anyone but yourself.'

'I know, Ice-'

'No. Listen.' He took Denmark's hand in his own. This was the hand that had ruffled his hair so many times, could be gentle and vicious in equal parts, held flagons of ale and a lover's fingers, ended countless lives and made one other complete. 'He loved me softly, tenderly. But he _chose_ to love you. And it's selfish that you can't see that.'

'What do you mean?' Denmark's watery eyes found his own. His mouth trembled visibly, another crack in the body that had been beaten and broken so many times over the years.

'I mean that you wallow in self-pity and anguish whenever things go against you. You're the bravest person I know, but you'll never get back up when you're knocked down.' Iceland stood, smoothing down his jacket.

'Ice-'

'Write to Norway.'

'But I have!' He waved a hand at the desk, which was littered with torn paper and spilt ink. 'Sweden always sends them back unopened. Bastard.' It was Iceland's turn to laugh.

'Idiot,' he said, the word meaning more than either of them could describe. 'Who cares if they're never read? Write. He'll know. I'm sure he's writing letters of his own.' _Norway would find a way to get them past Sweden if he wanted to. Which means he hasn't written a single word._ But to tell Denmark that would probably kill him there and then. He patted Denmark's shoulder, feeling very much the adult, and left swiftly. The cool air of the corridor hit Iceland full on. He shivered. But there was nothing so cold as this- their half-nightmare, half-struggle state, and the knowledge that they would all drift away if it lasted long enough.


	27. Chapter 27

**Prompt: 'You know me, I'm impulsive'**

'Let's skip today's meeting.' said Norway, even as he picked up his briefcase. But the memory of soft fingers on his skin still lingered sharp and sweet- too recent to spend the morning in a stuffy conference room. Denmark grinned over him.

'That's not like you, Norge. I always had you down as a goody-two-shoes.'

'You know me, I'm impulsive.' He set down the briefcase again and loosened his tie. 'Come on. It'll be fun.' Denmark did not need telling twice. He shrugged off his blazer, stretching his arms wide with a contented sigh.

'I feel like we're school truants or something.'

'If we'd ever been to school, that is.' Norway opened the sole window of their shared hotel room, breathing in the pine-scented air. Finland had always been his favourite place for a meeting. _And now we have the whole day to enjoy its attractions._ Yet even as he thought that, Denmark's arms slid around his waist.

'Can't we just stay here?' he murmured, chin dropping onto Norway's shoulder. Helsinki was right outside their door- but Denmark's warmth was infectious. He found himself sorely tempted to give in. _I'll draw it out a little longer. He's always responded well to that._

'But there's a museum I want to visit, and they might come and find us if we stay in here...' Norway's voice trailed away as soft lips pressed themselves to his neck. He grasped Denmark's arms and turned around, holding him back. His determination could not be denied, it was true.

'Nor?' Confused azure eyes peered down at him. Norway gave an enigmatic smile and moved off, undoing a shirt button as he went.

'I'll give you what you want- if we go for a walk first.' He undid the rest of the buttons and shrugged off his shirt, taking his time to find its replacement. Denmark's gaze followed him about the room as though he was hypnotised. 'I thought down by the river first,' continued Norway, pulling on a casual t-shirt. 'Then there's that nice cafe I've been meaning to try, just past the post office.' he said as he donned a thick jumper. 'Well, don't just stand there.' His hand flicked out and tossed Denmark's precious hair gel at him.

'Ouch!

'Get ready. I guarantee there'll be a government do-gooder looking for us here in less than ten minutes.' Norway watched, grinning, as Denmark changed quickly into normal clothes and added liberal amounts of gel to his already lofty hairstyle.

'Done!' he exclaimed, sidling back to Norway and taking his hand. 'Now can we go?'

'I suppose.' They made their way out of the hotel, down to the riverbank where willows with green-grey leaves bobbed and quivered. It was a brisk spring morning, and few people had ventured out.

'Got the place to ourselves,' said Denmark in a voice that was nothing if not suggestive. But he was right. The trees whispered to no one except them, the only other people hidden away in cars or bustling past busily. 'So there's no one to see if I do this-' He bent his head, eyes sweeping shut. Norway's hand came up just as their lips were about to meet.

'Later,' he breathed, accenting it with a smile. Denmark's frustration was making itself felt. He stalked off to stand by a tree, arms folded.

'Why won't you-'

' _Denmark?_ ' called out an incredulous voice.

'Shit.' hissed Norway. 'Hide!' They ducked into a bush just as a pair of feet were rounding the corner.

'It looked like Denmark. I'm sure it was him.' the voice was saying. Its owner came into view- somewhat short, with slightly wind-tousled blond hair.

'Finland!' exclaimed Denmark.

'Be quiet!' They watched as Sweden appeared alongside him. Both were dressed in everyday clothes, and seemed to be looking for something. _Or someone._

'You two are clueless. Leave this to me.' said a second voice.

'Icel-'

'I know.'

'Oh, Denmark!' sang out Iceland. 'We're visiting the Lego shop in town!' No sooner had he finished speaking than Denmark shot from the bush at lightning speed.

'Really?' Norway climbed out after him.

'No, not really. It doesn't open until ten.' Denmark frowned.

'Then what are you all doing here?' he said, folding his arms. 'We- well, we decided we could probably skip this meeting.' His face took on an attempted expression of innocence. It did not go down well with the others.

'The meeting's tomorrow, Den.' said Sweden. He gave a flash of something that might have been a smile. 'We came to see if you wanted to go and get breakfast somewhere, but when we turned up you were both gone.'

'You can blame Norway and his impulsiveness for that.' muttered Denmark dryly. 'But- ah- we've got somewhere to be,' he continued, feeling a hand tug at his arm. 'So, see you later!' He just had time to duck out of sight before Norway pulled him into the promised kiss.


	28. Chapter 28

**Prompt: 'You know me, I'm impulsive' (this one was popular :D but I tried to make them all different)**

 **1932**

'Roderich, come on!' Elizabeta's hand tugs at the rich fabric of his jacket. 'The shop'll have shut by the time we get there!' She turns about and sets off down the street, hair flowing behind her in a rippling chestnut wave. Roderich stays where he is for a moment, simply staring. Elizabeta is his. That's something he'll never get over- that this beautiful firebrand of a woman has devoted her life to him, shy little Roderich from the music school.

'Come _on!_ ' He smiles, setting off in the direction of her shout. She has never been a patient person.

'So, where to?' Roderich asks as they stroll, arm in arm, past the sun-dappled banks of the Danube.

'A coffee shop, to get some _gugelhupf_. Your country's talent for baking and music, of all things, never fails to surprise me.' He grins and draws her a little closer. Vienna is unrivalled in the autumn; trees crowned with burnished red and gold leaves, the band that plays Strauss in the park, the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods that hangs over everything in a calming haze. Music, light, love- everything Roderich needs is right here. A violin strikes up its high, smooth melody just as they enter a coffee shop. The room is cool and softly lit, sunlight streaming through every window. Elizabeta squints at her menu.

'Affogato,' she reads in an accent. 'Ice cream served with coffee or liquor.'

'It's some new-fangled thing from Italy,' Roderich tells her, having already selected his usual order of tea. 'They're going mad for it in the larger suburbs.' That catches Elizabeta's attention; she is fashionable, always keeping up with the newest styles. Which is why Roderich sometimes feels old and behind when he has her on his arm.

'Then I'll have the affogato,' she tells the waiter.

'Will that be with coffee or limoncello, _fraülein?_ '

'The limoncello, please.' Elizabeta shoots Roderich a wink, long eyelashes batting against creamy skin.

'I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.' he tells her when the waiter is gone.

'You know me, I'm impulsive.' She pauses as Roderich's tea arrives. 'What's wrong with alcohol at eleven o'clock?'

'Many things, but I doubt you'd agree with any of them.' He sips gingerly at his tea. Elizabeta has her back to the window, and sunlight rings her head to form a halo, bringing out golden lights in the dark hair and and illuminating her vibrant green eyes. She is so beautiful it almost hurts to look at her. As though she knows what he is thinking, Elizabeta reaches down and takes his hand. She rubs a finger down his slender pianist's joints, smoothing the dull ache of practice away. Once Roderich thought of nothing but music- now, he has her.

'Excellent,' she says when the affogato comes. Her long fingers curl around the spoon, and she pours the limoncello over her ice cream with a dancer's grace. Everything about her is stunningly, breathtakingly gorgeous.

'Eliza-' The spoon is in Roderich's mouth before he can say another word. The sharp tang of lemon alcohol blends perfectly with ice cream on his tongue, and he gives an appreciative 'mmm'. Elizabeta laughs, a sound better than any song he's heard. He has to take off his glasses and polish them for a moment. 'I lo-'

'You too, piano boy.'

When they have finished, Roderich is blushing rose red, and Elizabeta sways a little from the limoncello.

'It's beautiful here,' she sings, hanging from his arm. _You're beautfiul_. He cannot bring himself to say it out loud, but Elizabeta understands anyway. 'I love you,' she murmurs, pushing him against a tree.

'And I- I love-' He stammers and stutters over the words, hands twisting together awkwardly.

'I know you love your piano more.' She grins at him.

'I love you more. Honestly.' The fact he has to justify their love against a piano says it all- and so does the kiss she gives him, bold and brazen in a public park. Yet Roderich would not exchange what they have for a thousand pianos.


	29. Chapter 29

**Prompt: 'Let's go for a picnic'**

It is a hot, heavy day in Amsterdam. Their house sits by a canal, which means that waterflies swoop through the open window at all times, Belgium reaching up occasionally to swat at one. She lies on the sofa opposite to Luxembourg, their feet just touching. The heat has slowed everything down until no one can do so much as move. But Netherlands does not seem to be affected. He sits in an armchair, striped scarf knotted around his neck in an act of defiance, rereading _De Ontdekking van de Hemel_ for the hundredth time.

'Oh, this heat is unbearable!' moans Belgium, flapping at her fevered face with a hand.

'We know,' growls Netherlands from behind his scarf. 'You don't have to tell us again.' She sits up and fixes her gaze upon him. He meets it with wry reluctance. It is irritating, how he can stay muffled up in his coat and scarf whilst the rest of them are burning. But Netherlands has always been irritating to his sister, despite his many charms.

'Get up,' says Belgium, swatting at his arm with the newspaper. He turns blank, disinterested eyes on her. 'We're going for a picnic, and you're going to help make it.'

'A picnic!' exclaims Luxembourg, leaping from his seat. 'Can I-'

'No. This is Ned's job, for being difficult.' She ushers him to the kitchen. They all like to cook, baking especially, so it is equipped with all manner of utensils and ingredients. Netherlands picks up an orange and bounces it on his palm, sneaking a glance at the book held in his other hand.

'What am I making?'

'Sandwiches, fruit cut into little shapes, maybe some cakes, definitely a salad...' Belgium reels off a list of improbable food items, each one more ridiculous than the last. But Netherlands remains stoic-faced when she is done.

'All right.' He takes off his coat (never the scarf) and seizes a knife. 'I should be done in around eight hours. I'll wake you up when it's ready.' He begins slicing a carrot with affected seriousness. For a moment, Belgium is seriously tempted to let him cook everything. _It would certainly teach him not to be so sharp-tongued,_ she thinks. But Netherlands' sharp tongue can be one of his good traits. So she picks up another knife and starts on another carrot. He gives her a look- triumphance, no doubt.

'Too kind for your own good, sister.' he says quietly. Belgium stabs down the knife in response, brushing the skin of his hand and sticking in the wood just beneath it.

'That could have gone through your hand if I wanted it to.' she replies, sweet as sugar. Luxembourg stands in the middle of the room, shaking his head derisively.

'You two are awful.' he mutters. He turns around, making for the stairs, but Netherlands seizes his wrist.

'Come on, Lux. We can all help. It'll be fun.'

And strangely enough, he is right. They work in companionable silence, knives slicing and chopping, greasing baking trays and peeling fruit. They don't even make a quarter of the things on Belgium's mad list, but it is five-thirty when they finish, with a full picnic basket and the sun still very much strong out of the window. The three of them set off down the canal, picnic basket in tow. Amsterdam has always been beautiful, and never more so than today. The waters are gilded with sunlight, lapping gently at the boats, and everywhere there are people dressed for the hot weather, some carrying picnic baskets of their own. A bright, busy day. They find a spot on the grass and sit. Netherlands takes out his book again. Belgium and Luxembourg exchange idle words, working their way through the food and basking in the sun. The heat is not half so bad outside. And later, when the sky begins to darken, they lie in a row and watch the stars appearing, like sparkling flowers against a deep black garden. Belgium knows then she is truly happy.


	30. Chapter 30

**Prompt: 'I didn't realise I needed your permission'**

Denmark has always thrived off other people. They fuel his natural charisma, keep the smile wide on his face, save him from falling into the dark thoughts that hover constantly at the back of his mind. Norway knows that, since that day in 1523, Denmark has never slept a night through unless there is someone beside him. It is 1823 now. Nine years in a union with Sweden. He has spent them passively, attending meetings with his usual blank facade and doing his best not to fill Finland's shoes. Because that's really why he's there. To make up for Sweden's loss, help him forget that Finland was ever his colony. _But it didn't work, did it, brother?_ Norway thinks bitterly as he strolls down an ice-coated Stockholm street. He was too cold for Sweden, possessed none of Finland's natural warmth. Sweden tried to deny that. On their first night as kingdom and colony, Sweden caught Norway by the hand as he was walking to his bedroom. It was a brief touch, no words said, but the meaning came clear enough. Norway had shaken his head, and locked his door every night after that one. He did not think Sweden would force him. But war does strange things to a person's mind.

Norway does not intend to spend the three hundredth anniversary of the Kalmar Union's end with Sweden. There might be a formal dinner, perhaps a few words from Sweden himself. Awkward. Uncomfortable. So he brushed past Sweden's feeble attempts at restraining him, and sent off a letter to Denmark. It contained only three words. _Stockholm. Fountain. Us._ Now Norway makes his way there, a brisk morning breeze ruffling his immaculate hair. It feels strange without his cross clip. But Iceland needed a reminder, something to tell him that his brother would return. Sometimes Norway doubts he'll ever see that clip again. He reaches the fountain and perches on its lip, hands buried deep in his pockets. Winter in Stockholm- early winter- is his least favourite time. The air becomes thin and sharp, whipping across faces with no mercy, and the snow never settles until at least November. A flake lands on his forehead. Norway bites back the urge to shiver, and hunches down a little further in his coat. _Soon. He will come._ Throughout these nine long years, he has never allowed himself to pine for Denmark and Iceland, focusing instead on his country's union and getting out of that union. Yet now the fantasies come flooding in. How Denmark's arms will go around him, impossibly tight. How he will whisper words that make Norway feel alive, alive as he has not been for nearly a decade. And he will cry- perhaps they will both cry- and hold each other, be together as it is supposed to be.

He watches Denmark enter the square. He is noticeably thinner, face drawn into taut lines, with a coldness to his eyes that was not there before. But still tall, hair still dishevelled, still the same man that shattered every time Norway left him. _And now I must put the pieces back together, for the thousandth time._ His face visibly crumples when he sees Norway. What little composure Denmark built up is tossed away in seconds, and he runs, seizing him in a bone-crushing embrace.

'You're here,' he sobs into Norway's neck. 'You're here.' Suddenly tears of his own begin to fall. There are no words, nothing he can say that will make this easier when it inevitably ends. So Norway just stands, and holds the one person he ever let past his layers of ice. He puts up a hand when Denmark's lips inch towards his. Norway studies the face he knows so well- lips chapped but soft, eyes bright and wide with hope, the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

'Not yet.' he breathes.

'I didn't realise I needed your permission.' Denmark tries to smile, so Norway kisses away his doubt. He kisses him long and deep, until their tears mingle, tries to internalise the wonderful feeling of flying.

'You don't. Never again.' They embrace, somehow sweeter than a kiss. Denmark's hand slides through his hair, one arm still around his neck. For the first time in years, Norway feels whole.

'Where can we go?' There is no suggestion in his tone. Nothing but the simple understanding between two eternal lovers, the melody of a voice that can say more than a thousand words.

'I know a place.' They stay close together as they walk, arms entwined and shoulders bumping. Norway's heart is full, brimming over with feelings so raw and good he cannot name them. _Perhaps this is love. Can I do that? Can I love?_ If someone as emotional as Denmark thinks so, then Norway will accept it. He gave everything he had in their centuries together, laid bare his soul and took Denmark's in return. There is no crueler fate than for them to be separated. But that is what Sweden has done. Unknowingly or not, he broke them, tore them apart beyond repair. Ten thousand lifetimes will not be enough to mend it- but to Norway, a patched, messy love is better than no love at all. He stops in front of a narrow house and unlocks the door. 'It belongs to some merchant who paid his way into the king's favour,' he explains, pulling Denmark by the hand. 'Hasn't found a buyer yet, but he gave me the keys.' He locks the door, always careful, and sheds his coat. Denmark's eyes rove over him- the thin, wiry body, crisscrossed with hundreds of scars beneath his clothes. _He used to kiss every one before we slept. He said they only made me more beautiful._ Norway never believed it, but he does now. There is something deep and passionate in Denmark's gaze. Something that sees past scars, sees past all the ravages of time to the truth within. And tears spill down Norway's face all over again.

He draws Denmark into the bigger of the two bedrooms, lighting a fire in the grate. They give each other a long look. After a thousand years, some things don't need words. Norway gathers a stack of blankets, and they sit wrapped in them whilst the fire builds up, huddled close together.

'Three hundred years,' muses Denmark. 'We had some good times, didn't we?'

'We did indeed.' They fall silent for a while, remembering. The night it happened- the swing of an axe, a knife in the dark. Over in moments. Norway reaches out, finger tracing the raised groove of Denmark's scar. 'You're alive thanks to me.' he says. Denmark clutches his hand.

'Sometimes I wonder if you should have saved me at all.' His face is serious.

'Don't say that,' Norway murmurs, inching even closer. 'We had our time. It was beautiful, messy, bloody. I wouldn't change it for the world.'

'But it's _over_ , Nor. I let you go and they took you away. Now we'll never be _us_ again.' He sighs and leans his head on Denmark's collarbone. It juts out further than he remembers, but Norway tries to ignore it.

'Then I swear to you I'll get free. We'll both be independent nations, and no one can keep us apart.' There is something grating on the edge of Denmark's smile. He holds Norway close to him- perhaps to soften a coming blow.

'If you're independent, you won't live with me. And-' A hand covers his mouth.

'Idiot.' He says it like he might say _I love you._ 'I could have walked out any time during our union, and you'd have been to broken to stop me.'

'But you didn't.'

'And that makes all the difference.' But Sweden would stop him if he ran now; Sweden knew his own strength, could deploy and restrain it to his advantage. But he is not fire. He is not Denmark. And Norway kisses him again, each touch repairing his broken love a little. They are not whole. They are not perfect. But there is no one else for them.


	31. Chapter 31

**Prompt: 'You still love her, huh?'**

Dances at Ludwig Beilschmidt's house were always grand affairs. He hired only the best musicians, uncorked his finest wines, and spared no expense on making the ballroom a sight to behold. The usual crowd was in attendance: Ludwig's brother Gilbert, a wicked grin on his face and the ravishing Elizabeta Héderváry on his arm; the Vargas sisters, enamoured of both Ludwig and a Spaniard named Antonio; Tina Väinämöinen and her hardly-secret lover Berlinda Oxenstierna, and of course Lucia Bondevik and Margarethe Andersen. They had skirted around each other for years, fending off rumours of a relationship and having brief flings with other men and women. Nineteenth century Germany was liberal, but even then they would not divulge their true feelings for one another. Their friends could only watch and wait. Now Margarethe stood at the edge of the room, sipping at her champagne as Lucia was whirled about in Antonio's arms. They matched each other well- he olive-skinned and dark-haired, her pale as snow all over with deep blue eyes. _Ice and fire,_ thought Margarethe. She was all fire too, with flowing golden hair and a fiery, passionate gaze.

'You still love her, huh?' Chiara Vargas appeared at her side. She was a short, curvy woman, with liquid dark eyes that took no nonsense from anyone. Margarethe liked her for that, but was closer to her sister Feliciana.

'Who said I loved her?' It came out harsher than intended. Chiara laughed, a throaty sound that turned Antonio's head whenever he heard it.

'It's obvious, my dear Margarethe. You can't take your eyes off her. When she speaks, when she smiles, when she does anything. You're besotted, aren't you?' They watched together as Antonio kissed Lucia's hand, bowing deeply before her. She shot those fathomless indigo eyes in their direction for a second.

'Who wouldn't be?' said Margarethe softly. A smile spread across her face. But Chiara was not so convinced.

'Her family wants her to marry some Russian businessman, you know. They'll never let you be together.' she said, blunt as usual. Margarethe's face grew solemn. She downed the rest of her champagne, not giving the alcohol any time to sit on her tongue.

'We have some time.' she said, before setting down her glass and leaving the room.

Lucia Bondevik watched her go, a small smile on her lips. She turned back to Antonio.

'Excuse me.' Seizing her bag, she fled as fast as was polite and caught Margarethe by the shoulder in a hallway. The other woman's face was flushed, adding a pretty pink tinge to her cheeks.

'Marg-'

'They say you're getting married.' Her lips were pushed up into a pout; Lucia resisted the urge to kiss them.

'His name is Ivan Braginsky. He has a male Chinese lover, so I'm sure he wouldn't be that bothered if I did...something similar.' She contented herself with a squeeze of Margarethe's hand.

'Is that so?' whispered Margarethe, drawing closer. Her perfume was exotic, a deep and musky scent.

'If you'd like,' breathed back Lucia. She stepped back just as Margarethe's mouth brushed against her own. 'But I don't want our first kiss to be in a corridor.'

'Agreed. There's a broom closet down the hall.' Lucia laughed- and stopped when she realised Margarethe was deadly serious.


	32. Chapter 32

**Prompt: 'A little cuddling won't kill you, I promise'**

 **1906**

 _One year,_ thinks Denmark as he enters their little sitting room. It is a bright, cosy room, with a view over the canal and a wood fire that burns day and night during winter. Not like the roaring hearths of their huge old house- smaller, friendlier. He sets a steaming mug of coffee down on the table and squeezes in next to Norway on their tiny sofa. Norway instantly moves closer. When he first got his independence he was distant, afraid that the old unions would resurface. But now, they are rebuilding all that was taken from them in 1814.

'It's a year today, you know.' Denmark murmurs. It still hurts to talk about it, and he is still consumed with equal grief and fury when he thinks of Sweden.

'I know.' Norway sips at his coffee. 'I miss Ice.' Iceland is visiting his own land, something he has insisted upon doing alone since early in the nineteenth century. Their separation has only made even the smallest of times apart difficult.

'Me too.' He leans his head against Norway's, humming a soft tune. Outside snow is beginning to fall, drifting down in large white flakes that pile up on the flowerboxes. Someone shouts a name down at the docks. A seabird shrieks, high up in the sky. There is no other noise, except the quiet crackle of the fire. Denmark's arms come to rest around Norway. The past year has been devastating, glorious and complicated by turns, yet the mere presence of Norway has helped him to survive.

'Stop that,' mumbles Norway, struggling up from his seat. 'I'll spill my coffee.'

'A little cuddling won't kill you, I promise.' says Denmark with a grin. He takes the coffee and puts it to one side, holding Norway close. Eventually he relents, curling into Denmark's side and staring out at the snow with sleepy eyes. It is this he has missed most- the quiet times, when there is no need to speak, and all that matters is that they can hold each other in peace. 'I never wanted you to leave.' He only realises he's said it aloud when Norway shifts again, turning around to took at him.

'Den. It's been a year. That's not long for us, but it's certainly long enough to have moved on.' His hand grasps Denmark's in a tight hold. 'Don't let this haunt you,' he says, gaze fierce and bright. 'I've watched you fall apart so many times, but-' Something cracks in his voice, and Norway glances away. 'I don't think I can help you through it again. I can't watch you drink and beat the walls bloody, can't watch you slash your own wrists and wake up screaming every night. I can't do it, Danmark.' Denmark's mouth grows tremulous.

'It will never happen again,' he whispers. 'Not whilst I have you. We were diplomatic last time Sweden came for you, and look where that got us.' His hands twist a little, the site of countless crisscrossed scars. 'We'll fight. Both of us, together.'

'Just like it was meant to be.' And Norway sounds so much like a story, like a song, that Denmark's lips seem to move on their own. He kisses Norway for what must have been the millionth time. Yet every one has made their love grow larger.


	33. Chapter 33

**Prompt: 'Stop worrying so much! I'm grown, I can take care of myself!'**

1894

Iceland ogles his own reflection in the mirror. He is less of a child now, grown taller over these past few decades, nothing like the boy Norway left in 1814. Sweden's gentle hands knot a scarf around his neck. He hums as he works, soft and quiet. Iceland would have protested, were it anyone else, but there is something broken in the Swede's eyes that stills his tongue.

'Thank you,' he mumbles when Sweden is done. 'I should go now.' Sweden's arms splay awkwardly, but in the end he opts for a brief handshake.

'At least say goodbye to him. You've come all this way.' Iceland nods. He does not leave the room straight away, taking in Sweden's creased clothes and his crooked glasses. The man he knew so long ago was always neat. His uncle, tall and stern, with a heart that melted more easily than even Finland's. Iceland learned early on that a flutter of the eyes was enough to sway him. And now he feels as though Sweden is a stranger, changed by the tumultuous centuries and the constant battles with Denmark. He turns to leave. 'Ice, wait-' Only Denmark and Norway have ever called him that. Ice, Den and Nor, names for family. Names that Sweden no longer has a right to use. 'I- I wanted to say something. Before you left.'

'Say it, then.' Why are his hands shaking? Why do his eyes feel warm? Sweden pushes him gently into a chair and sits in the one opposite.

'You live with Denmark now. Just the two of you.' He nods, staring down at his clasped hands.

'And- he treats you well?'

'Why wouldn't he?' It comes out more accusingly than Iceland intended. His time with Denmark has been difficult, to say the least. But that does not give Sweden any right to ask. Eighty years on, Denmark is the only father he's ever known, even if neither of them will admit it. _He raised me. And in return I stopped him from going utterly mad._ Their house is a sombre one, yet Iceland would not live anywhere else- except perhaps with Norway.

'You know what he's like,' begins Sweden. He takes off his glasses and rubs at his weary eyes. 'He gets angry. He shouts, hits things, drinks all the time.'

'For the first few years after you took Norway, yes.' Iceland turns the full force of his glare on Sweden. He should not feel angry- has no reason to- yet there is something in the older man's face that fills him with fire. 'But I'm helping him, just as he's helping me. We live by the river now, it makes him happy to see the water. And _I'm_ happy.' The words are stilted, jarring. But if he puts emotion into them, they will pour out in an unstoppable torrent until he explodes with rage, like the volcanoes of his island home.

'I'm worried about you, Emil. I don't think it's safe-'

'Stop worrying so much! I'm grown, I can take care of myself!' Iceland stands abruptly, raking trembling hands through his hair. 'He would never do anything to hurt me! Never!'

'He hurt me.' Sweden's voice stumbles. He taps the side of his head. 'He stole my words from me, my sight. It took decades before I could speak without stuttering, and my eyes will never be the same.'

'I'm not talking about that!' hisses Iceland, fists clenching. 'That was centuries ago.' The pain he feels is recent, rawer. 'You know what you did.' He moves closer, prowling like a tiger. 'You took Norway from his home. You took him from the people he loves, and the people that love him. You claim to care for us, but you broke Denmark.' His face breaks into a cracked smile. 'And I know you don't care about that, you've hurt each other enough over the centuries. I don't blame you. But Norway-' Iceland lingers over the word- '-Norway's changed. He's not eating. He's sick with pain and fear, and that's not the brother I know. The brother I know would never stand for this.' He takes both of Sweden's hands, holding them up in front of his face. Sweden's face is terrified- and Iceland can see why.

'You destroyed him.'

He collapses into tears the moment he leaves the house. Because all of it is too much: the childlike bewilderment on Sweden's face, how his glasses were crooked and he looked dazed, how he wasn't the gentle giant Iceland remembered, Finland, far off under Russia's thick black shadow- and then there was Denmark, who had nightmares so bad his throat no longer had the capacity to scream, and Norway: emaciated, hollow Norway. _My family is broken. Shattered._ All Iceland wants back is his brother. He insists he is no longer a child, but knows it is not true when he falls into Denmark's arms the moment he is home. _Beautiful and broken,_ thinks Iceland. Like everything he has ever known.


	34. Chapter 34

**Prompt: 'Your lips are so soft, I could kiss them all day'**

Sunlight streamed through the open window, gilding the skin of two intertwined bodies. Iceland was the first to wake. He stretched, pressing against the arms around his waist, and leaned up against the headboard. There was a flicker of mocha eyes as Hong Kong stirred beside him.

'Mornin,' he mumbled, raking a hand through his tousled hair.

'Morning.' replied Iceland with as much sleepy tenderness. He put a hand on Hong's, and felt it tighten in his grasp.

'Did we-'

'No.' Hong Kong visibly relaxed. Their relationship existed under constant strain from Norway and China, who had not yet accepted that their little brothers were not so little any more. But here, in Iceland's fashionably expensive Reyjavik apartment, all the meddlers were too far away to matter. Iceland traced Hong's lips with a trailing finger. They curved in a smile beneath his touch, and he bent down to meet them with his own.

'Your lips are so soft,' murmured Iceland. 'I could kiss them all day.' That earned him a longer kiss, and a tight hug. Hong Kong gave the best hugs, even better than Denmark's bear-like embrace, though Iceland would never admit it.

'I wouldn't mind that.' whispered Hong into his neck. 'It's always cold here. Let's stay in, so you can kiss me all day.' Iceland leapt from the bed and shot him a teasing grin.

'Breakfast before boyfriend,' he admonished, pulling a jumper over his head. Hong Kong smiled at his retreating figure. Mornings were much better when there was someone to share them with. He stole another jumper from the wardrobe, so similar to Iceland's it was uncanny, and followed him to the little kitchen. Everything in the flat was compact and stylish, blond wood Scandinavian furniture gracing the rooms and the fabrics all soft blue and dove grey. It never failed to surprise Hong Kong- that Iceland could have such terrible fashion sense, but somehow be a genius of design at the same time.

'What's that you're cooking?' he said, sliding long arms around Iceland's waist.

'Omelette,' said Iceland, swatting at him with the spatula. 'Go and lay the table, you're distracting me.' Hong Kong grinned again, pulling out two plates. He incited further irritation from Iceland by spinning them on his hands, and running a nail down the pristine planes of his polished table. Iceland rolled his eyes, bringing over a pan and starting to dish out their breakfast.

'So,' began Hong Kong. 'Where's my kisses?' He took a mouthful of omelette, chilli scorching his tongue. Iceland popped open a can of Coke and sipped at it without replying.

'You're being annoyingly attention-seeking today,' he grumbled after a moment. Hong smiled around his spoon. Iceland left himself open to these things, he really did.

'But I've got your attention now. Right?' Iceland shovelled omelette into his mouth with more ferocity than was perhaps needed.

'Right.' he said, muffled by food. Hong Kong shot him a wink. Usually he would have been as taciturn as Iceland in the morning, but cool sea air and the constant bustle of Reykjavik had set his blood rushing. 'How does ten thousand sound?'

'Ten thousand what?'

'Kisses, of course.' They shared a grin, and Hong reached over to peck him on the cheek.

'Ten thousand and one now, you've got to pay me back for that one.' Iceland smoothed a hand through his dark hair, the other pulling him closer by the material of his jumper.

'Done,' he breathed, and moved in on Hong Kong's mouth.


	35. Chapter 35

**Prompt: 'It's nice that your voice was the first thing I heard today'**

Sweden is reading on the sofa when he hears the door bang at quarter past eleven. The clap of smart shoes echoes through the hallway, along with a frustrated sigh that can only be Finland's. He waits expectantly where he is. Finland does not disappoint, trudging into the sitting room and flopping down next to Sweden.

'It's nice that your voice was the first thing I heard today.' he says, kneading his knuckle into one eye. It is a strange comment, admittedly.

'And why's that?' asks Sweden, dropping an arm across his shoulders. Finland leans into his touch, kicking off his shoes and curling his feet into the small space.

'Because everything else was a complete nightmare.' he murmurs. 'Denmark wouldn't shut up during the meeting and Norway wasn't there to keep him in check, America started off on another rant about robots and Russia just kept _smiling_.' His eyes droop shut. Sweden cannot resist a smile of his own.

'Never known you to be against smiling, Fin.' he says, setting down his book. 'So what else happened, besides Russia failing to be friendly?'

'Don't want to talk about it.' Finland mumbles into his shoulder. 'Tell me what you did so I can pretend it was me instead.' Sweden does a quick review of his day. Nothing much happened- it rarely does when he's not at work.

'I finished carving that new chair for Sealand's room, and spent half an hour on the phone listening to England complain about him not eating lunch.' He pauses, glancing down at Finland. 'Bored yet?' His only reply is a small grunt. 'Iceland came round for a bit, he's got a separate meeting tomorrow in Stockholm. Talked about- well, nothing in particular.' He carries on long after Finland has fallen asleep, telling the empty air in that low voice what he had for lunch, how it rained all through the morning and soaked the new garden table, the new bakery he found in town and anything trivial, from seeing a cat in the back yard to the book he's reading. Finland gives a little snore. His face hangs slack but enchanting as ever, eyelashes fluttering occasionally to expose a slit of violet, and his mouth falling open a little. Sweden watches him sleep for what must be ten minutes. When the clock chimes for midnight, he swings him into his arms with ease and sets off up the stairs. There is no need for light; they have lived in this beautiful house, with its airy rooms and soft, deep carpets, for over seventy years.

'Night.' he whispers, lowering Finland gently onto the bed and loosening his tie a little. Arms snake around his neck.

'Stay,' breaths Finland, barely awake. But his skin is silvered by moonlight, eyes a pretty pale violet colour. How can he refuse an offer from a creature as ethereal as this one? Sweden lies down next to him, sleepy himself all of a sudden. He presses a soft kiss to Finland's forehead, mouth curving with love. _I will never get tired of this._


	36. Chapter 36

**Prompt: 'Aw, you're blushing like a rose!'**

'We will now break off into smaller groups to discuss the central topics,' announced Germany from the head of the table, eyes scanning them all seriously. 'The notes taken will be reviewed in tomorrow's session.' Denmark clicked and unclicked his pen with restless boredom. He was not overly fond of world meetings full stop, but somehow this one put them all to shame in terms of excitement levels- that was, very low excitement levels.

'We're a group, then.' said England. Denmark looked up to see who else was there. Norway, thank heaven, but also Japan, which meant he had to discuss politics for the next hour with three taciturn and sharp-tongued nations. They would most likely pounce on his every word, like dogs with a bone.

'I believe Canada made some good points in his climate change reversion speech,' began Japan, scribbling away furiously as he recited every minute detail of the speech. England and Norway followed suit. Their notepads were soon covered in writing, whilst Denmark had merely scrawled the date and location.

'Come on, Den.' said Norway, nudging him. 'You need to take some notes.' He sighed, staring down at his page. His pen formed the words _Canada's speech was good, according to someone who was listening._ Norway frowned when he saw. 'Are you taking this seriously? An entire country depends on you, and you can't even take notes.' The reprimand hit him full on and buzzed around his brain. Denmark rubbed one temple, trying to eradicate the headache before it could properly form. _Why is everyone so bloody solemn these days?_

'Of course I'm taking it seriously.' He forced a smile. 'Canada- very good, very sensible.' Denmark stole a quick glance at Norway's notes and began to copy them down. But his handwriting was an archaic copperplate hailing from medieval times, and soon the letters swirled about on the page in front of Denmark's eyes. He wondered if he could be ill. Denmark was ebullient most of the time, a bright ball of energy, so people rarely believed him when he caught an illness _. Too damned happy, that's my problem. People like England can't deal with more than one smile a day._ America's voice floated over from across the room, which only intensified his headache. _Fuck, I'm actually ill._ Denmark laid his notepad down on the table, a haze forming in front of his eyes. His throat felt scratchy, that was certain. A pale shape hovered in front of him.

'Den,' it hissed. 'Den, what's wrong?' He blinked a few times, and Norway's glaring features came into view.

'Don' feel too good.' he mumbled, coughing. Norway hesitated. After a moment he sighed, giving Denmark the benefit of the doubt.

'I'll take your notes just this once,' he said, close to Denmark's ear so no one could hear him. 'But don't come complaining to me when your boss yells at you for not listening in- I think, a record fifth world meeting. Understood?' Denmark gave a weak smile, playing it up a little now his illness had been accepted.

'Thanks, Nor.' He pressed a quick kiss to Norway's cheek, taking his chance while he could. Norway shoved him- but they had already been noticed. England looked faintly embarrassed, Canada gave them a thumbs-up, America wolf-whistled loudly and someone that might have been France started a round of applause.

'Oh, sweet Odin.' said Norway under his breath. He stood hastily, making to leave. Germany frowned at him.

'Is there a problem?' he asked in accented English.

'Need some air,' he mumbled, trudging from the room with Denmark in tow.

'Aw, you're blushing like a rose!' said Denmark once they were outside. He grinned, though it was less wide than usual. Norway swept a look over him.

'You really are ill, aren't you?'

'Thanks for noticing.'

'No, I mean it.' Norway's eyes met his, and he even smiled a little. 'Want to skip the rest?'

'But our _notes_ , Nor-'

'Fuck our notes.' He grabbed Denmark's hand, pulling him through the lobby door and out into the street.

Much, much later, curled up next to Norway on the sofa with a blanket, Denmark knew he did not regret anything. Except the countless angry voicemails from Germany, of course.


	37. Chapter 37

**Prompt: 'I knew this day would come...sooner or later'**

Twenty minutes from midnight, Copenhagen had been transformed into one huge party. Banners adorned every house, the riverboats were strung with lights, and the wavering tune of drunken Danish singing floated on the air. It of course came from Denmark himself. Out of all the countries of the world, he had won the lottery to host their annual New Year's party. But this was no ordinary New Year. It was the 31st of December, 1999, and Denmark intended to welcome the new millennium in style. With the help of the other four Nordics, he had cleaned out their cavernous old house, decorating every room and turning the garden into a venue fit for a festival. Alcohol flowed free and plentiful, Pulp's Disco 2000 blared from the surround-sound speakers, and most importantly, everyone had been drunk from ten o'clock that morning.

'I have to say, England, even if this song's from your country it's a good one!' yelled Denmark over the music. England gave him a wave in return. He was a morose drinker, and so far his night had consisted of six bottles of aquavit and an irritated Frenchman. Denmark drained the rest of his own beer. He scanned the crowd for Norway, and was surprised to find him up a tree with Netherlands, both eating brownies with questionable ingredients. _Best not go near them for a while._ His feet started, understandably, back towards the outdoor bar. It had been an expensive purchase, but worth it considering he'd be around to use it for the next few thousand years. He poured himself a glass of champagne and wandered over to the side of the house. Finland's old sauna still stood there, now accompanied by a swimming pool that some of the younger nations were enjoying. It was a freezing night, but he supposed that if enough alcohol was consumed it would not matter. There was a splash and a shriek as Liechtenstein leapt headfirst into the pool. Denmark shook his head, taking a smug sip of beer. His Germanic cousins had always been a little wild.

'Hey, Lili,' he said when she resurfaced.

'Netherlands?' Is that you? Oh wait, no it's-' She squinted through the darkness, pushing wet hair from her eyes. 'Denmark, right?'

'Right. That's my garden you've soaked. And do you know where Iceland is?'

'Just behind there.' She indicated a clump of bushes adorned with fairy lights, from which muffled laughter floated. Denmark's smile tightened a little.

'Thank you.' he said, beginning to climb through the foliage.

'I wouldn't do-' Yet even as Liechtenstein spoke, Denmark stumbled through to the other side, nearly crashing into two people at the same time. One was Iceland, of course, and the other-

'Oh, fuck.' mumbled a half-familiar voice. _Our little Icy, off kissing boys in a bush?_

'Nor!' yelled Denmark over his shoulder. 'Come here!' There was a crash, probably from Norway falling out of the tree. He grinned down at Iceland as Norway's footsteps grew louder.

'What is it now, Den?' Norway mumbled sleepily. 'Those brownies- damn, they were so good. Oh, hey, Hong Kong.' Hong Kong scowled back up at him.

'You'll never believe this.' said Denmark, in tones that better suited the presenter of some gossip show. 'Iceland- your little brother, the kid we raised for six hundred years until he finally decided to grow up- was kissing Hong Kong not two minutes ago.'

'I knew this day would come...sooner or later.' Norway's snapped wide open. 'At least have some taste in kissing, Ice,' he hissed. 'England's kid? Eyebrows?' Hong Kong brushed along his brow with a finger.

'It's not my fault.' he muttered sulkily.

'Oh, but it is!' said Norway, voice shriller than a banshee's. 'You come here- you kiss my brother- oh, Den. Our little baby.' And with a height of emotion known only to the severely intoxicated, he collapsed into Denmark's shirt and sobbed. All of a sudden it didn't seem like such a good idea.

'You keep your boyfriend,' said Denmark over Norway's loud crying, absent-mindedly smoothing down his pale hair. 'It is the year two thousand now, I suppose.' Iceland's expression still reflected part irritation and part embarrassment.

'Just don't tell anyone.' he mumbled, seeming to address Denmark's feet more than his face.

'Whole world's here, technically. It'll be old news by the next meeting, don't worry.' He manoueuvred his way back to the bar, made difficult by Norway hanging onto his arms, and cursed the strength of Netherlands' brownies just as the clocks of Copenhagen were striking midnight.


	38. Chapter 38

**Prompt: 'I always sleep better when you're here with me'**

If there's one thing Denmark can't stand, it's spending the night alone. Ever since Kalmar, since the terrible nightmares that still come to haunt him every so often, the only way he can sleep is when there's someone with him. Some nights Denmark struggles through, some nights he can barely contain his own riotous thoughts- and tonight it appears to be the latter. Today he sat through the arduous length of a world meeting. Such a long conference, should, considering the circumstances, have him asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. And Denmark tries, he really does. For several hours he lies in his bed in the unfamiliar hotel room, watching the shadows play across its plain white walls and not daring to so much as close his eyes. Because the thoughts are there. They're always there. Old memories of past wrongs, forgiven after countless drunken exchanges, yet surfacing again at times like these. You are not good enough, they whisper. _Look at what you did. You drove them all away._ He sits up, carding tensed fingers through his hair. The minifridge in the corner holds at least three bottles of beer, perhaps some aquavit as well. But Denmark forces himself to stay put. If there's one thing worse than the nightmares, the crowded thoughts, it's drinking to forget them. Artificial numbness.

His eyes drift to his phone on the bedside table. Norway is just there, within reach behind the push of a few buttons. Of course, he is no doubt asleep- it is 3am- and would not take kindly to being woken by Denmark's petty need. _Leave Norway alone,_ he tells himself. _He's put up with enough of your shit over the centuries._ Even after that, closing his eyes merely invites more shadows in. He flicks on all the lights and reaches for his prized fairytale book. It is perhaps the first compilation of those stories ever made, words barely changed from Hans Christian Andersen's original writings. Denmark skips the Little Mermaid, the Little Matchbox Girl, the Steadfast Tin Soldier. All of those never fail to make him cry. Instead, he flips over to the Ugly Duckling and begins to read. _Sentimental, childish,_ Iceland would say if he was here now. But Denmark still remembers a time when these stories were the only thing that sent Iceland to sleep. Him as well, though he was no child in the dark days of the nineteenth century. The illustration on the last page is beautiful. A swan, milk-pale wings spread wide, soaring into the dusky gold of a summer sunset. Suddenly the image is blurred by tears. _Perhaps I will never sleep again. Perhaps I don't deserve to._ And Denmark begins to believe it. He begins to give up hope.

That is when a knock sounds at the door, so soft and tentative he might have imagined it.

'It's open,' he calls out, pulling on a jumper. The door swings open, admitting faded yellow strips of light. Norway stands in its frame. He is dressed strangely, in tight jeans and a knitted jumper, a coat thrown over his shoulders like a cape.

'Can I come in?' Denmark does not answer for a moment, admiring the tousled locks of pale hair that seem to absorb all the light around them.

'Of course.' Norway drops onto the bed, smiling drowsily. 'You're hosting this conference,' says Denmark, not unkindly. 'Why aren't you at home?'

'Couldn't sleep. And I guessed you probably couldn't either.' There is something tender in the words, something hazily beautiful about two souls finding each other on a velvet-black night, that Denmark has to swallow down a second well of tears. He sits down next to Norway, brushing the hair from his eyes with a gentle hand.

'Want to stay here tonight?' Norway pulls the blanket over them both and kicks off his shoes. Uninvited, but very welcome, he slides his arms around Denmark, who automatically pulls him closer.

'I always sleep better when you're here with me.' And at last, they drift off, together.


	39. Chapter 39

**Prompt: 'That's my girl, and she's the baddest thing I've seen in the world'**

A soft _chink_ floated through the night as a small bag changed possession. It fell from a high building, coming to rest in a pair of waiting hands. Mathias Andersen did not bother to look inside. The tell-tale rub of gems against his well-trained hands was enough.

'Clear,' he called out in a low voice. It was followed by the whirr of a zipwire, then a quiet splash as two booted feet landed in a moon-dappled puddle. 'Nice job.' Mathias said. Lucia shot him a sharp smirk.

'It was simple,' she demurred, sliding a pair of stiletto knives into the black depths of her jacket. They had been stealing now for around five years, since discovering each other's kleptomaniac tendencies in university. ''Stealing'' did not exactly cover what they did, however. ''Breaking and entering'' was closer to the point, as was ''armed robbery''. But Mathias Andersen and Lucia Bondevik were the best in the business. Everyone knew it- from feared gang leader Ivan Braginsky, to the decidedly dodgy Vargas brothers. They were no one's friend, no one's enemy, and they commanded an icy respect that was truly terrifying to see.

'Let's go,' said Mathias, winding an arm around Lucia's waist. Accomplices for five years, lovers for three. He often found himself picturing what their inevitable wedding would be like. Black and ice-white themed, only the finest food and alcohol, then two weeks somewhere cold and northern for a honeymoon.

'What're you smiling about?' she said, her own grin poised and wicked.

'Just...just everything. We're good at this. We're rich. And as long as you're with me, I feel as though I could do anything.'

'Suppose I'd better stay, then.' Mathias squeezed her hand.

'I should hope so.' He came to a stop beside their sleek black Porsche, opening the driver's door and firing up the ignition. Its numberplate was fake, in case of police detection. Normally Lucia would have driven, but she had a certain disregard for speed limits that would have landed them in trouble with the law, were it not for their numerous underworld contacts. The car purred contentedly as it glided through the night. Lucia checked her make-up in the mirror, touching up the blood-red lipstick and reapplying mascara with deft, deadly hands. She lit up a cigarette and let out a long puff of smoke.

'Want one?' Mathias shook his head. He preferred cigars, but allowed himself them only on special occasions. Though this might just turn out to be one of those.

'Lucia?'

'Yes?' Her liquid-dark eyes met his own in the mirror.

'This job'll keep us going for a while. So, I thought-' He drummed anxious fingers against the steering wheel.

'You thought?'

'Maybe we...would you...let's get married.' Mathias blurted out the last part in a rushed tangle, feeling his face glow bright crimson. Lucia smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her jacket.

'Married?' Her tone might have been mocking, but Mathias was too nervous to tell.

'You know- husband, wife- kids.' She mulled it over for a moment, pushing back waves of pale hair whilst Mathias waited, mouth dry with tingling dread.

'All right.'

'Wha- what?'

'I'll marry you.' she said, just as the car drew up outside their apartment. Those scarlet lips drew closer, claiming him in a kiss with tenderness barely oozing through the rough cracks. He knew he loved her, and she loved him- in their own dark, dangerous way, a way which no one else understood. Mathias did not care. _That's my girl, and she's the baddest thing I've seen in the world._


	40. Chapter 40

**Prompt: 'And I was quick to take a second look through the window on the door of the operating room'**

 _Surgery,_ they said. _It's the only way_. Mathias held Lukas' hand as the doctors spoke, his heart sinking a little more with each word. Twenty-four percent survival rate. A risky operation. The only way.

'Do it,' Lukas rasped. That had been four days ago. Now he lay in his bleak white hospital bed, paler than the pillows, one hand with a drip in it fallen across his chest.

'Hey,' Mathias said softly. Twin pools of indigo opened up amongst a sea of snow.

'Hey.' Lukas mumbled back. Their conversations these days were short, stilted, with too much to say and no idea how to. But the days when speech flowed like a waterfall were still fresh and recent. Lukas, always an introvert, had met Mathias in the first year of university when they were both studying Old Norse and Viking History. A shared passion was discovered, a friendship quickly formed, and the rest followed from there. W _e could talk about anything for hours,_ thought Mathias sombrely. _Stupid things, serious things, but the words just kept coming._

'How's the job?' Lukas' whisper-croak jolted him from the nostalgic reverie.

'Good.' He had taken up a post as junior editor in a publishing firm for historical books- mainly to occupy his mind with something other than Lukas' illness. 'And- and how are you?' Mathias asked awkwardly. He knew he had done something wrong when Lukas let out a sigh.

'Mat...this illness, it's all I am now.' With a skeletal hand, he gestured to himself; the paper-white skin, hollow eyes, jutting bones. It had been a tumour that struck Lukas down. Nestled close to his heart, a malignant presence that sapped away his strength a little more every day. Such a tumour would be painstakingly difficult to remove. With the added risk of heart failure in surgery, of course.

'No. No, you're so much more.' Mathias lifted his emaciated hand as though it was made of the finest china.

'But I'm not, Mathias. I used to be. That's all gone now.' It would have been easier if Lukas cried. Yet instead he smiled, thin and bitter, a lifeless homage to past happiness. 'So I want you to remember me, as I was.'

'Of course,' breathed Mathias, not daring to raise his voice in case there were tremours concealed within.

'Tell me now, before it fades.' And so he did. In low, melodious tones, he spoke of meeting Lukas, how his etheral beauty seemed to outshine everything else in a beacon of ice. How Lukas' handwriting was tiny, yet he always managed to write pages more than Mathias. The way he liked his coffee- black, two cups every morning. Even the way he had kissed, those pale lips full of life and warmth when joined with Mathias', and how he would smile afterwards with every part of his face.

'And I would do it all again, would give kingdoms and universes just to see you smile one last time.' whispered Mathias. Lukas had fallen asleep, breaths quick and fluttering. 'But you're gone, aren't you? I'll never see that smile again.' _Except in my dreams, my love. In the soft haze-world of sleep,_ (though he would never sleep again, not without Lukas' comforting frame to drape himself around) _you shall come to me and whisper pretty lies. But you are gone now._ This was a goodbye, he knew. People said things with meaning at goodbyes. Promises, regrets, revelations. And all he could remember was that Lukas had loved poetry. The Icelandic family sagas, _Beowulf_ in traditional Old English, Dante's _Divine Comedy_. Even the silly little odes that Mathias wrote for him when they were drunk. One line sprang to mind.

'Do not go gentle into that good night,' Lukas was never gentle. He stung, like the cold prick of an icicle. 'Old age should burn and rave at close of day,' His soul had been ancient, timeless, though not matching his face. 'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' So Mathias raged. He raged for his lost love, the decades they should have spent together. He raged against death- 'Though wise men at their end know dark is right,'- and the too-bright flicker of life, so painful when extinguished.

'God natt, min elskede.' Mathias told forever-closed ears.

The next morning, when a doctor came to take Lukas to his surgery, he was met with a strange sight. The man in the bed had obviously passed hours ago. His face was sunken, limbs a chilled ashen white. But the man sat asleep beside him was all colour. Golden hair, freckled face, blue jacket, red sneakers. And, like the strangest sort of blood, in a river of words and tears, was the last reminder of something dead but not gone. Paper, scrawled with words. It covered the blanket in little scraps of black and parchment yellow. _Let us go then, you and I..._

 **The lines Mathias speaks are from 'Do not go gentle into that good night' by Dylan Thomas, and the very last line of the oneshot, in italics, is from T.S Eliot's 'Prufock'.**


	41. Chapter 41

**Prompt: 'Fading in, fading out, the feeling's gone, it's like we're enemies'**

It was snowing harder than Leon had ever seen the day he met Emil. Admittedly, he had never seen snow before, having lived in China his whole life prior to, but even this was heavier than what they showed on TV. Emil slipped, Leon ran to him- a movie-style meeting. It was almost too easy from there. Thanks to Emil's brother Lukas and his boyfriend Mathias, both of whom worked for a high-profile company in Oslo, Leon was able to get a flat and a job. He had been in Norway for three months when Emil first kissed him.

'Why did you do that?' Leon asked, bewildered.

'You want me to do it again?' They moved in together a mere six weeks after that episode. And for a while, life was perfect. They had money, friends, hope and dreams, a love that burned bright and fierce as the day it had first been lit. Until one evening, Emil came home with a spilt lip and an envelope of money in his pocket.

'Where'd you get that?' Leon said, meaning the bloody lip.

'Work.' had been Emil's muttered reply, grudgingly letting Leon patch him up. He knew not to enquire further after that. Lukas and Mathias' reputations now preceded them, and not in the way a celebrity might. In the sort of way that meant police turned a blind eye to their actions for fear of losing their lives. And now Emil was tied right up in the middle of it.

Now Leon sits in the kitchen of their expensive apartment, flicking through TV channels with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. _They're French,_ Emil told him. _Disgusting, of course, but everyone smokes them._ Everyone. Emil's new best friend. When he tells Leon to forget about wearing the clothes he bought last week and get the latest fashion instead, it's because _everyone's_ doing it. _Everyone's_ got an Italian coffee machine, diamond-studded shot glasses, Gucci shirts that can be tossed casually on the floor. Once Leon revelled in all the shining wealth around him. Now, it makes him uneasy, as though he never belonged here. _And perhaps I never did_ , he thinks to himself morosely, stubbing out the cigarette on a plate. _That's Le Cruset,_ Emil would say if he was here. _Don't you appreciate the things I buy for you, Leon?_ The door slams, echoing to Leon's lonely spot in the kitchen. He waits for Emil to call out 'I'm home!'. There is only silence. Emil stomps in from the hallway, tossing his designer jacket onto a chair and popping open a shirt button. In another world, that action alone would have prompted Leon to come up from behind and kiss him. _A world we used to live in._

'Leon,' says Emil suddenly. His violet eyes are wide, almost innocent. There is enough vulnerablity in their depths that Leon wants to hold him close, close as they have not been for so many weeks. 'I need you to do something for me.'

'Anything.' Something flashes across Emil's face- pity, most like.

'I need you to hide this somewhere safe.' At first, Leon does not recognise the object held out to him. Slim, black, shining. It would feel like death in his hands.

'How- Em, where did you get this?'

'That doesn't matter.' Emil's voice grates on the edge of irritation. 'Please, Leon. Just take it.' Leon reaches out a hand- then jerks it back down to his side. Something rushing, soaring, pounds within him.

'I won't.' Emil's eyes narrow. He has always been attractive, even beautiful, but without the cold sting of Lukas. Leon sees that now, sees that all Emil wants is to be like his big brother. Respected, feared, adored, everything Lukas has and he doesn't. _I have failed him in that last category._

'What do you mean, _you won't?'_

'I'm not playing along with your dirty little games for a second more. You're here, but it's like I don't exist! You haven't said a word to me for at least four days.

'Lies.'

'Prove it.' They ogle each other for a fire-filled moment, cold amethyst eyes against warm coffee brown. _These hands were not made to hold a gun,_ thinks Leon. _To caress, to touch with love and tenderness._ But Emil wants fire, wants a dark passion that Leon cannot give him. 'Emil.' It comes out strong and impersonal. 'The day you ask me to hide a gun is the day I leave.' He makes for the front door, only to be stopped by Emil's tensed arm.

'You can't!' he protests. 'I love you, Li.' Leon wants to believe him. He wants it so much it hurts, wants to be needed by someone and to need them back. But Emil has never really needed him.

'I wish that were true.' He pushes past, steps through the door straight into a black winter's night. Perhaps Lili Zwingli will let him sleep on her sofa. Maybe there's a cheap room going at a hotel. Mathias and Lukas, recognising the effects of Emil's short temper, might even take pity on Leon and let him spend a few nights in their mansion downtown. But Leon knows he has never truly been welcome there. Too much love in that house, an odd love though it might be, compared with his and Emil's cold apartment. So Leon sits down on the steps, and waits to be invited back in. There is always an ulterior motive with Emil Steilsson. But Leon has nowhere else to go.


	42. Chapter 42

**Prompt: 'You said, you said it was only making love'**

It was a clear New Year's night the first time they kissed. They had both been drinking, the thrill of the new millennium had scattered their wits: just some of the excuses Iceland gave his brother the next morning. Even after that, Norway only stopped sulking after nearly six days. But it came to Iceland's attention, some weeks later, that Hong Kong was not a bad kisser at all. It did not matter that his skin shone golden-brown, that every part of his coffee-coloured hair was perfectly messy, that something warm and intense rested within those dark eyes. And it certainly did not matter that the very same eyes now ogled Iceland down the dreary length of a conference room. Someone was speaking- Germany, no doubt- but he did not take a single note, too distracted by Hong Kong's insistent gaze. _Stop looking._ Iceland forced himself to concentrate. Even Denmark had written more than him, despite the considerable distraction of Norway beside him. _Stop it. Focus._ He wrote a single word, then crossed it out. The black streak left by his pen looked oddly like a lock of Hong Kong's hair- no, it was nothing like that, he was being ridiculous.

Iceland could have wept from sheer relief when a break was called. He sipped at a cup of lukewarm coffee, trying to calm his fraught nerves. But fate clearly did not intend for it to be so.

'What's wrong?' asked all-too familiar honey tones.

'Nothing,' growled Iceland. 'Now, if you would let me-' Long fingers grasped at his arm.

'Emil, I mean it. New Year was three months ago, and I've barely heard from you since.'

'And why would you expect to hear from me?' he retorted, praying that Hong Kong would take the hint and leave.

'Iceland- what we did that night- it's all I can think of. All I've been thinking of since you stepped into the meeting. It sounds weird, I know-'

'Too right.' muttered Iceland.

'But I just wanted you to know...it meant something to me. Still does, even now.'

'You said it,' he hissed suddenly. 'You said it was only making love. I didn't expect this.' Iceland tapped the side of his head, signifying memories of New Year that refused to leave him.

'This.' repeated Hong Kong. His voice was soft, almost grateful. 'So you did feel something more. Me as well- for so long.' That caught his attention. Something began to ache inside Iceland, a feeling that was closer to regret than anything else.

'For so long?'

'I used to look out for you at parties, things like that.' admitted Hong Kong, face reddening a little. 'But you were always with your brother, or Denmark, or looking after Sealand.

'They're my family,' replied Iceland shortly. 'Not too strange, is it?'

'And that night, I guess I felt braver. A now or never moment. I thought you'd feel safer, since you grew up in that house.

'I did indeed,' he said, remembering it vividly even now. But Hong Kong- brother of the formidable China, related to the equally terrifying England- had considered his comfort, his happiness. There was something about it all that curved Iceland's lips into the smallest of smiles.

'So, what did you think?' Hong Kong was definitely pleading by now. 'We're- you know-' Iceland considered for a moment. But only one thing came to mind: the memory of lips, gentle against his skin, warm and soft, with a tenderness Iceland had never dared believe might be shown to him by anyone other than his family. And all of a sudden he remembered his own lips warming in response.

'We can try,' said Iceland at last. What was this now- a relationship? His only experience of such things was the respective love of Denmark and Norway, Sweden and Finland. Hardly ideal role models for two supposedly teenage boys, dark and passionate against sweet and domestic. But they could try. They could always try. 'Just as long as you promise not to stare at me in meetings anymore.'

'Can't do that, I'm afraid.' And soon Hong Kong's lips were closer than they had any right to be.


	43. Chapter 43

**Prompt: 'When silence falls, that is when I feel lonely'**

It will always be like this, he thinks. Cheery and at ease during the day, ever ready with a smile or a joke. People are drawn to Denmark because of this. Prussia, a friendship formed mainly in beer; America, good fun when he is feeling especially outgoing; there is even something about Netherlands' apathy that Denmark admires. He has friends. He has a lover- though the word, erotic and almost shameful, hardly does Norway justice. And perhaps it would be all right, if only Norway were not so taciturn. Denmark is familiar with their brand of love by now, the warmth and security of each others' arms more comforting than words will ever be, centuries of memories that have forged something eternal between them. They spend every night they can together, holding each other until they fall asleep. Or so Denmark wishes. Noise is easy. Noise fills in the blanks, soothes his lingering panic, accompanies him throughout the day and keeps the smile on his face. _When silence falls, that is when I feel lonely._ Denmark has Norway, and with him mutual respect and love. He has Sweden, Finland, who still stand by him after all the hurt between their countries. Even Iceland can brighten his mood with just a few soft words.

Most nights Denmark struggles by, clinging to Norway like an anchor until his fatigue grows large enough to swallow him. And then there are nights like this one. Nights that never seem to grow any easier, no matter what he does. Denmark lies awake at 4am, Norway curled around him and his eyes wide open. The exhaustion is there. But so are the thoughts, the memories, and they will not let him sleep. At last he swings his legs over the side of the bed, disentangling himself from Norway's warmth with no small reluctance. Denmark draws in a quivering breath. All he can see is the life leaving Sweden's eyes with a single axe blow, all he can feel is the sharp, pulsing pain of a scar long healed over. One hand trails across his torso, brushing against a puckered line. Finland's last gift. And suddenly that pain is hot, too hot, rising up to choke him like the blood nearly did all those years ago. Denmark shrugs on his jacket and steps out of the burning heat. It is much cooler on the landing. A shadow plays idly across his feet, scattering moonbeams and sending a quick flash across Denmark's face. He descends the stairs with an insomniac's light step, used to navigating the flickering dimension between night and day. Denmark feels an odd sense of freedom swell up inside him. He has the whole night, at least five more hours to be alone until Norway wakes up. Not that Norway is bad company- quite the contrary- but even Denmark treasures moments of solitude like these.

He slips into a pair of trainers and then out into the lamplit streets of Copenhagen, filling his lungs with cold air. Almost at once his head feels lighter. Denmark walks for a while, hands deep in his pockets and head deep in thought. There is no foreseeable way out of this hell, no escape from the agony of not sleeping. _Sweden. I need Sweden_. It all began with him- fights, bitter rows, prolonged silences, adding up to the eventual fracture of what was already an uneasy bond. And now, Denmark needs reassurance that it has all been forgiven. He dials his brother's number from memory and waits, leaning against a lamp post.

'Hello?' mumbles a voice on the third ring.

'Sve, it's me.' There is a crackling rush of breath over the line. Denmark can picture Sweden's frustrated face all too well. But then he remembers his centuries of nightmares, and it is easy to keep talking. 'I...I just needed to know. About 1523, 1611, 1814. We're- we're all right, aren't we?' For one long, terrible moment, Sweden does not reply. Denmark would hang up, were it not for the fear hunching his shoulders.

'Where are you?'

'Out. Not too far from home. Why?'

'I'm coming to see you.' The dial tone sounds harshly in his ear. He slides his phone back into a pocket, remorse creeping up all of a sudden. _I was his big brother. I was meant to protect him, not the other way round._ But Sweden, with his large, careful hands, his low, gentle voice, has always been the stronger one.

Denmark slips down streets glowing with faded golden light, warm and welcoming as a sunlit meadow. Only the air is cold, and he is used to that. Soon suburbia gives way to central Copenhagen- to the iconic red-and-orange-painted houses, the long dark length of the canal, and a sunrise-gilded sea lapping softly in the background. It occurs to Denmark that the sea looks more inviting than anything ever could. He ambles past rows of sailboats at a leisurely pace, until his feet come to stop on the familiar cobbles of the city harbour. Something unclenches within Denmark. This is his true home, the part of his land he feels most drawn to. Sea salt and frozen fish might be unsavoury smells to others, but for him they are childhood memories hailing too far back to be accompanied by images, the last vestiges of an era when all that mattered was war and glory. Slowly, almost bashfully, Denmark sheds his jacket, shoes and socks, so he stands by the sea in jeans and a t-shirt. One toe trails the water's glassy surface. It breaks, the shatter of a cold mirror, sending ripples out to join the distant waves. Already Denmark can feel goosebumps rising on the bare skin of his arms. But for him, the cold is not something to be avoided. For him, it is sweet and soft as a lover's kiss. His feet follow, rolled-up jeans just skimming the cool depths. It is too good, too intoxicating, to wait a second longer. Denmark lowers himself down until the saltwater has closed over his head. And everything comes alive. When he opens his eyes, the sting is merely awakening, and all his joints loosen as he swims out further and further. Taking a breath seems pointless. So he does not, diving down even deeper with strong arms that have plied these waters upon countless occasions. _My first love,_ Denmark thinks. Sometimes there is a third part to his passionate relationship with Norway- this cold, this release, this sweet freezing haven. An affair of the purest kind.

His lungs begin to prickle, but Denmark does not care. With every inch he dives, the thoughts fall away a little more. He stops for a moment, simply floating. Too far gone to rise up. The water wants to take him, and so he lets it, sinking deeper and deeper, the tension around his chest lessening that of his mind. This, Denmark feels, is the only place where he can truly belong. Even the darkness creeping across his eyes means well. _Home of sirens, mermaids, selkies. And now another broken soul joins their ranks._ Perhaps it will be like the Little Mermaid, and he will rise again as a sighing spirit on the wind. Perhaps his fate is to guard these indigo depths, like tragic Undine. _Perhaps it is only darkness after all._ But all Denmark can think, as numbness finally conquers him, as night lifts him up and carries him home, is that he does not care. Not if the sea surrounds him.

Nations are strange creatures. They can be dealt a mortal wound, only to survive it through sheer force of will. They can die of a broken heart, of the pressure of tangled politics, everything that should be nothing to them. But the sea is everything to Denmark. Which is why he rises again the next morning, laid out on some desolate northern beach. He passes a hand across his face. It is damp, salt-scented from seawater. A harsh laugh bursts from his lips. _So there it is. I lived._ Truly, Denmark does not know if he would rather have died. He begins to walk, careless of his bare feet against the concrete pavements. Passers-by shoot their dishevelled nation bemused looks. Tousled golden hair, soft, tired eyes, a creatures of the waves lost upon land. Denmark begins to believe that he could be both. He can never leave either of his two loves for long, and it transpires that drowning every once in a while is a good cure for constant self-doubt. Instinct brings him home. One hand lifts to push the bell, but the door swings open anyway. Denmark barely has time to register everything before a pair of skinny arms fling themselves around his neck.

'Where were you?' Norway half-mumbles, half sobs into his hair. 'You're freezing!' He draws Denmark inside without waiting for an answer, fussing over him as he has not done for decades.

'Went for a swim.'

'I can see that. And you drowned as well, by the looks of it.' Norway's tone is gently mocking. But his face blanches sickly pale when Denmark gives a shrug. 'Den...please, tell me you didn't.'

'I've always loved the sea.' he says, letting Norway crush him in an even tighter embrace. 'But never more than I loved you.' Another pair of eyes lock with his own over Norway's shoulder. One moment aquamarine blue, the next bottle-green. Interchangeable, mesmerising- just like the sea.

'Den.'

'You came.' It is followed by a silent, but crushingly sincere apology. For drinking to forget, calling again and again at some ungodly hour, for ruining get-togethers with his loose tongue and too-bright smile. For everything.

Norway will always be the sole entity holding Denmark together. But when Sweden smiles at him, younger brother reassuring the older, Denmark knows it does not matter. Because Sweden's best trait was always his ability to forgive, no matter how long it took him. And for now, that is enough.


	44. Chapter 44

**Prompt: 'And I like the way you hurt, inside'**

History has not been kind to them. It has thrown countless wars at them, power struggles, mad kings and corrupt governments. It has forged many a great empire, only for all of them to come crashing down in the end. Few feel this more keenly than the time-ravaged duo of Austria and Prussia. They held immense power once, knew what it meant to don a crown and rule a kingdom. Frederick the Great is rarely far from Prussia's mind, just as Austria still mourns Archduke Ferdinand. Because that is what links them. The reminder of something invincible, something almighty, something that can sweep away two jarring personalities and form a centuries-tight bond.

'He'll never know,' growls Prussia one night, slamming his pint of ale down. They are in his Berlin house, the one that the government is letting him keep out of pity and tarnished respect. 'He'll never know what he stood for, the power he was too young to use.' Austria takes a long sip of his own beer. 'That's fucking messed up, don't you think?' He gives a non-committal shrug. Prussia is off on one of his half-nostalgic, half-furious rants about former empires, and tonight's lucky subject is Germany. Or the former Holy Roman Empire, cue Prussia's rage.

'You should set up a club,' suggests Austria. ' ''Bitter Ex-Empires." ' It is said in jest, but Prussia's face becomes thoughtful.

'Nice idea, Rod.' he says. 'Though I'd have to invite that grumpy bastard England.'

'Your choice, not mine.' But later, lying beside Prussia in a largely unmade bed, Austria wonders just how many people would turn up to such a gathering. The Italy brothers, out of respect for their grandfather's legacy; Denmark, Norway and Sweden, having finally agreed who owns what land; Spain and all his conquistadoral regrets; China, Japan, Russia; the list was endless. _When did we all become so peaceful?_ he thinks, despairing guiltily. England is known now for rainy shores and too much tea, not the empier that once covered a fifth of the globe. Austria recalls his own imperial days with a twinge of regret. He and Hungary, married for longer than was probably healthy. And now there is Prussia. The man who, through too much alcohol and an absurdly charming smile, has wormed his way past Austria and held on tight. But in doing so he bared his own soul. He bared the hurt inside, the feeling of worthlessness, the mingling pride and jealousy at his brother's achievements as a country. Austria smoothes Prussia's pale hair back from a forehead that is just as colour-wiped. A creature of ice, this man- until he opens his eyes. Those eyes are what first drew Austria to him. Like a pair of rubies, imbued with all the heady glow of the sun.

'Stop making me want to wake up,' Prussia grumbles, swatting at Austria's hand. 'I'm meeting Hungary tomorrow morning, you know what she gets like if someone's late.' He knows all too well. The three of them are relaxed about their relationship, sharing themselves and their time equally. The only line they have not crossed is that most daring of ventures- the three of them, same time, same bed. Austria blushes just thinking about it. He has always been a man of tradition. But there is no tradition in the way he kisses Prussia, exploring his lips all over again, no normality in his sudden and fierce passion.

'What's got into you?' Prussia says, displaying his favourite all-knowing smirk.

'The past.' Their past consists mainly of failed rendezvous and shattered promises. Which is why Prussia turns up half an hour late to his date with Hungary, shirt rumpled and hair a mess. Her only response is to smile. Tradition, after all, is a thing of the past.


	45. Chapter 45

**Prompt: 'Everything was so worthless, I didn't deserve this but to me you were perfect'**

He knows that time is running out. He knows it by the dimming light in Norway's eyes, by Iceland's forced cheer, by his own crumbling composure.

'I promise we'll come back,' Norway tells his sobbing brother the day they leave the big house. They are going to a smaller one down by the canals, in the hope that Sweden will not be able to find them there. Iceland is jubilant by the time they reach their new home. He has always enjoyed boat rides, and this one has thankfully cheered him up.

'Is that it, Dan?' he exclaims in his piping little voice. Denmark follows the tiny pointing finger to a blue-painted door, to a tall, slim house with windows running vertically down its length. A pretty place. A place where they will, in theory, be safe. The three of them step off the boat, letting servants take their heavy suitcases. Norway holds a key in his hand. It was not his idea to move, but he chose this house in the end, and so it is he that unlocks this latest chapter in their lives. They step inside, greeted by a surprisingly airy hallway with doors leading off on either side. Iceland smiles. Norway coughs. And all Denmark wants to do is weep. But he cannot, must not, so he helps to carry in the last of their belongings from the boat.

' _Storebror!_ ' calls Iceland. His tunic is already stained and crumpled, hair endearingly messy. 'There's a pond in the garden!' Denmark and Norway exchange a look. They are truly, truly alone now, no servants or kings. Just the three of them- their little family. He mumbles something inaudible and sets off upstairs. There are three bedrooms, which makes him absurdly afraid. _Another reason for Norway to drift away._ But Denmark brushes the thought aside. Norway has sworn to stay with him, to endure everything together. He decides that the biggest room will be theirs, Iceland's just next door, and crosses to peer through the window. Copenhagen has never been known for its good weather. The sun is at least out today, though it is accompanied by whip-sharp winds and the occasional smattering of rain. Norway and Iceland stand beside the little garden pond. They seem to be talking, though Denmark is too far away to make out a single word. _I cannot lose them._ The thought is sudden and burning in his mind. But Denmark, who has always thrived off other people, off gentle words and touches, will have no one left if they go. He sits down gingerly on the bed. It is cold, unfamiliar- nothing like his own. There is something make-believe about this house, something that makes it seem as though they are only playing at being a family, and soon Sweden will come to end their silly little game. _I would give up everything, if only I knew they would stay with me._ For that is the worst part- not knowing if the next day will be their last together, if fate and destiny will finally meet. Denmark buries his face in his hands. Try as he might to stop them, the tears still seep through. Because for once, he cannot control what happens next.

That is how Norway finds him later, sprawled fully dressed across the bed with tear tracks glistening on his face. He does not have the heart to wake Denmark. _Let him keep his dreams for a little while longer._ Everything is worthless to Norway now except this- this love, this family, this final fragment of hope. _We were perfect once,_ he thinks, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Denmark's ear. It will never be the same again. But Norway does not care. By the soft kiss he bestows upon his beaten-down lover, by the tenderness with which he combs Iceland's pale locks, by every gentle touch and quiet moment, he does not care.

'I've always loved broken and bloody more than perfection.' he whispers. _You still look like my broken dream, like my tear-choked song._ 'And we are still young, we'll always be young. We still have time.' But their time is running out.


	46. Chapter 46

**Prompt: 'Go on, mock me, say I'm insane but it's you who's caught in my game'**

They met in the grey-green marble cathedral of Nidaros. It was a hot, hazy day, the land still hungover from last night's celebrations. Sweden made his way up the crimson-carpeted aisle, breath creeping out in a reverent hush. He only had to close his eyes to picture the congregation assembled here yesterday- government officials wilting in their stiff uniforms, high-profile visitors glorying in the grandeur of the day, and of course their broken family of five, dressed from head to toe in full military regalia. A finger trailed across the altar's gilt ornamentation. They had knelt here, the people's chosen, to be crowned king and queen of Norway. A Danish prince and an English princess; two of Sweden's bitterest historical enemies united under a different country entirely. _But we are all at peace now, three happy kingdoms and three loving brothers._ Or so it was in theory. Sweden tipped his head back, eyes behind their thick glasses skimming the cathedral's lofty vaulted ceilings. Another jewel in the crown of this beautiful land- now a country and kingdom in its own right. Because Sweden had not been strong enough to hold on. The fault was all his own, his and his government's, and for that he supposed he should be thankful that Norway was free. When Sweden lowered his gaze again, Denmark was stood just opposite him.

His hair was rather less than neat, eyes drooping with exhaustion and a yawn tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wore a dark, modest suit, as was the accepted fashion these, but at least two shirt buttons were undone, and an expensive tailored jacket was draped carelessly over his arm.

'Denmark.' Sweden greeted his brother with bland respect. Denmark glowered at the hand held out to him.

'Sweden. Care to tell me I'm stood in a cathedral at nine in the morning?' Now came the hard part. He had a purpose for this meeting, a predetermined reason that Denmark might just believe. But it was far from the truth. _He came to gauge my strength. Just as I came to see what remains of his._

'It's about Norway.' That got Denmark's attention; his head jerked up, one hand smoothing down his hair as though the nation in question was there to judge him. Sweden sighed, plucking at the silken altar cloth so he would not have to meet Denmark's eyes. 'He- independence is new to him. When the celebrations are over, he'll turn to us, as his older brothers and mentors.'

'What are you asking?' It seemed that Denmark was still too forthright to read between the obvious lines in speech.

'We need to help him,' continued Sweden, biting back his irritation. Denmark brushed his fingers against a polished mahogany pew. All of it grated upon Sweden's nerves: the arrogant ease in his brother's stance, caressing this monument of Norwegian history as though it belonged to him.

'That would imply you think Norge can't manage alone,' said Denmark mildly. He met Sweden's eyes with a lazy grin.

'I never meant-' Sweden sighed again. _Why can't he just cooperate?_ 'We have to put aside the past. Norway needs us now more than ever. He's independent, and we both know how dangerous-'

'You don't think he can do it.' Denmark's teasing smile remained in place, though a hint of steel crept into his voice. 'He's independent because he's no longer a part of you, Sve. And I don't mean to speak for Nor- you know he hates that- but if he was here, he'd say you were trying to make up for what you did.' He took a languid step forward. 'And I'd have to agree.'

'What exactly did I do?' returned Sweden, with just as much ice.

'You took him from his home-'

'From five hundred years of tyranny-'

'From the people he loved, his family, and kept him locked away for nearly a hundred more years.'

'That's bullshit,' spat Sweden, edging upon fury. 'Ninety-one years, in which I helped to stabilise the government _you_ neglected.'

'But he was free with me, independent in all but name. Norway could have left me at any time- and he didn't. The only reason he didn't leave your happy home together was because you kept him out of sight, like some dirty secret.' Denmark drew further in, close enough that Sweden could smell last night's cologne on him and a lighter, wilder scent. _Pine needles_. The forests of Norway were well known for their pine trees.

'We came here to discuss the protection of our brother.' Sweden fought to keep his voice level.

'Protection from what? He's the coldest of us all, _lillebror_. No wonder we couldn't hold onto him.' Denmark shot him another smile- frayed with rage, but with an almost pitying feel to it. The receding tread of his footsteps was a final strike to Sweden's olive branch of peace. _This game we play is far from over._ And he had just wasted his best chance to end it once and for all.


	47. Chapter 47

**Prompt: 'Your eyes are swallowing me, mirrors start to whisper, shadows start to sing'**

He comes at dusk. There is a darkening on the horizon, a flutter of scarlet and jet black- and then he appears, Every movement lithe and languid, a cloak of shadows spilling from the planes of his sharp shoulders. Tino knows it is wrong. Doubt gnaws at him in those small moments of waiting, when only the sea and sky can judge his actions. But every touch of Lukas' darting fingers, each careless kiss he presses to Tino's skin- that is righter than he can say.

'Come with me,' whispers Lukas one night. They lie on the beach, entities of light and dark curving into each other.

'You know I can't. We both have-' He breaks off, not wanting to say it. Berwald has always been painstakingly gentle in his caresses, in the love he shows Tino. Perhaps that is how this illicit passion came to be.

'Travel this world with me, Tino.' persists Lukas, a sudden fire flaring in his eyes. All demons were angels once, and there is still softness to be found in his silver-tinged hair. _But the rest was all swallowed up by dark flames._ 'Pretend for a while. You've spent an eternity in service- that's why I left. It begins to feel like a prison after a while.' Tino pictures his home, conjuring up images of figures glowing golden-white, a haven of peace and serenity. They preach freedom- but duty foremost, a duty to the one who all must cleave to when the golden gates are opened.

'Service is all I've ever known.' he replies softly. 'I can't-' Lukas' lips cut him off, searching with fierce hunger for a spark to set alight. He takes Tino's white robe and pulls, so the delicate embroidery is torn apart to reveal chastely unblemished skin.

'Then I'll help you to forget,' breathes Lukas with hoarse intensity.

Later, when Tino has gone, he allows himself a moment to think. There is something deliciously sinful about this little angel, about the blatant, primitive need to lose control that is reflected in his eyes whenever Lukas lays a hand upon him. They say that Hell is a place of horror and heat. They say that sinners burn there for all eternity. Yet all Lukas can see when he imagines it are lips curving wickedly, frantic and eager hands, a broken soul that completes his own. Mathias has always been a creature of fire and blood, comfortable in his demon skin. But Lukas was an angel once. He still remembers what it felt like to open his heart without malice, to sit at the feet of an eternal father and know that he was loved. _A pure love, but not the sort I wanted. Too gentle._ Mathias is sheer flame, red and black and gold. Tino is soft feathers and sunlight, white and azure- and yes, gold as well. Two lovers of light and dark. All Lukas has to do is choose.

For once he arrives first. A beautiful place, this beach, with a quietly shuffling sea and sands soft enough to contain their embraces. Tino comes not long after, a faint glow of yellow surrounding him like a protective aura. _To protect him from me,_ thinks Lukas, and not for the first time he experiences misgivings about it all. But only after that does he taste something off in Tino's kisses. Lukas whispers half-remembered scraps of gospel around their joined lips, the dying fragments of passages he held close to his heart in another world. Heaven is safe and welcoming. All the rules are in a book, and once Lukas followed them without question. In Hell there are no rules. He and Mathias manage to break them all the same, fuelling each other's fiery passion to build a raging smoke. Two halves of a whole; utterly equal in strength and desire. Perhaps that is why he was so drawn to Tino- for the sweet submission in his eyes, his willingness to please. There is no joy in dominance for Lukas now. He says as much when they lie back, entangled in the hazy aftermath.

'This is wrong.'

'I thought you were all for breaking rules.' With just a few words, he has pinpointed the worst fear of Lukas' black soul. There is an angel's obedience deep within him. It created this farce of a relationship, and now he will warp that obedience and put the world to rights.

'You've told me about Berwald. He sounds like a good man, Tino, far better than anything I can give you.'

'You do just fine,' whispers Tino against his lips. It takes all of Lukas' iron will to push him away.

'I'm not saying this out of self-pity, or even out of love.' He fixes Tino with his coldest indigo stare. 'I gave up my right to love the day I left heaven. I can't do this anymore, it isn't fair.'

'But you and Mathias-'

'I wouldn't call that love, not in a way that you could understand it.' Tino is pure, so sweet, too good for Lukas' burning passion. 'I do not think we will meet again.' And just like that, it is over. It began with dark hopes and darker promises, ended with everything shattering as nature took its course. _Fire calls to fire. That is all I am now._ But he'd rather burn than be righteous and holy, any day.


End file.
